LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 5 



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POEMS. 



BY 



MARY E. POPE. 



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> PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
1872. 



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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



TO 

MY DAUGHTER, 

THE TENDER, FAITHFUL SHARER IN ALL MY 

CARES AND SORROWS, 

THE FOUNTAIN OF MY BEST EARTHLY JOYS, 

THESE POEMS, WHICH SHE SO PRIZED, 

ARE LOVINGLY 



tea 



led. 



My daughter ! for her sake that word 

Breathes music sweeter to my ear 
Than else in human speech e'er heard, 

And linked with images more dear; 
Linked with Affection's fondest tone, 

With sweetest, gentlest acts of love, 
Which o'er a weary life have thrown 

Light from the land of rest above. 



St. Mary's School, 

Ash Wednesday, 1872. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Saint Mary's Bell 9 

The Spirit-Bird 12 

The Madonna . .... 16 

The Pestilence 21 

Miserere Pauperum . . ... . ' . . .24 

11 He's Some One's Bairn" . . . . . . 27 

" L'Aumone est Sceur de la Priere" ...... 29 

" Bless God for Trees" 30 

The Prayer 32 

Christmas 34 

" Give my Love to God" . . . ... . .36 

Shut the Door 38 

Old Calvary 39 

" Hedge her in" . . . . . . . . ' 41 

The Rose's Lesson . . . . . . . . -43 

11 Oh ! would I were not too cowardly to die" ... 44 

The Gift of Song . .46 

The Rain 49 

The Sunshine 51 

The Rainbow 52 

The Clouds 53 

Summer 54 

Winter 55 

(v) 



vi CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Butterflies 56 

The Firefly 57 

Melancholy 57 

Faith 58 

11 Thou art weighed in the Balance and found Wanting" . 60 

Music 61 

Making the Deacon 62 

A Friend 64 

Lengthening Shadows 66 

The White Stone 69 

The Mother Tongue 71 

The Minstrel's Fatherland 72 

The Lost Church 74 

Man . . . . . . . . .... 76 

Time's Lessons 78 

James Rose 80 

Grandmother's Pet 82 

My Muse 84 

Floy 85 

Mary West Smith . . .87 

To Ianthe 88 

■" Be sure you're right, and go ahead" 90 

The Rainy Evening 91 

Mary 93 

The First Gray Hairs 96 

A Picture 99 

Percy ........... 101 

Eighteen To-day . . . . . . . . . 102 

Farewell, Sweet Home 103 

I Cannot Sing . . 104 

I mourn thee, my Darling 106 

Charley 108 

A Faithful Friend no 



CONTENTS. vii 

PAGE 

To my Mother . . . . . . . . . .111 

Neddy . . . 115 

The Cowslip . . . . . . . . . .117 

A Thank-Offering 119 

To Floy * . . . . 120 

To Jenny 121 

Little Matty 122 

In Memoriam, Louisa, Wife of J. P. Trezevant . . . 124 

Oh, when this Fevered Life is o'er 126 

The Dead 128 

To Floy ........... 130 

Pure and True 131 

Marah 133 

Dream-land . . . 134 

Miserere mei, Christe ......... 137 

Requiem for General Lee 138 

Dixie at the Graves of her Dead 140 

The Confederate Flag 142 

The Confederate Dead 143 

Willy 146 

January Fifteenth 150 



POEMS. 



SAINT MARY'S BELL. 

Each morning with the ruddy light, 

Tnat calls us from the bliss of sleep 
To meet life's cares and life's unright, — 

'Neath which we fret, o'er which we weep,- 
Comes on the city's heedless ear 
A note of chiding and of cheer, — 
Saint Mary's sweet-toned matin bell, 
Pealing the hour of prayer to tell. 

When sinks the sun toward the west, 
And daylight's cares are almost done ; 

When Labor folds his hands to rest, 
And Folly's daily race is run ; 

Again with clangor loud and clear, 

Unto her straying children near, 

Of comfort, hope, and rest to tell, 

Saint Mary sounds her vesper bell. 

O'er Mammon's fierce, discordant cry, 
O'er Pleasure's sweeter siren call, 

O'er oaths obscene from Sin that fly, 
How oft the tones unheeded fall ! 

2 (9) 



SAINT MARY'S BELL. 

But witnessing for God, they still 
Their mission morn and eve fulfill, 
To careless men of heaven to tell 
With chime of faithful daily bell. 

We heed the call ; the place is dim 

With the soft glow of pictured pane, 
Bearing the tortured form of Him, 

The Lamb for our transgression slain. 
The recessed chancel's colors warm 
Far back a softened vista form ; 
And anthems old of raptured love 
Rise to the star-gemmed roof above. 

Or be it on high festal day, 

Kept for some martyr's memory, 

The altar's scarlet tints display 
The martyr's robe of victory; 

And duly spread with spotless white 

In the first tender morning light, 

The Eucharistic feast is set \ 

And there the few " their Lord have met. 

blessed sound ! when life is pain, 
And strength fails in the weary strife ; 

When human work's a tangled skein 
And hearts with unbelief are rife ; 

1 hail thy tone that bids me rest 
Awhile upon the Church's breast, 
And lay pain, weakness, toil, and ill 
Aside, to worship and be still. 



SAINT MARY'S BELL. IX 

O blessed hour of strengthening prayer 

To meet the busy, worldly day ! 
Without thee could I ever dare 

To face the snares that hedge my way ? 
And aye, as morning brings the light, 
And wakes me to life's ceaseless flight, 
My courage is renewed to hear 
That sound of Heaven-sent strength and cheer. 

O restful hour of thanks and praise, 

For mercies through the toilful day ! 
Eyes purged by grace from Passion's haze 

To see all things in Truth's clear ray; 
Hands strengthened for life's earnest work, 
Feet kept from snares that near them lurk, 
May wellxause thankful heart to swell 
The hymn when chimes the evening bell. 

O constant guardian of the soul, 

That long to deafened ears hast rung, 
Through changing seasons as they roll, 

The " Sursum Corda" from thy tongue; 
Offering the cordial balm divine 
Of prayer to those in sin who pine, 
And souls redeemed in heaven shall tell 
How they were won by thee, dear bell ! 



12 • THE SPIRIT-BIRD. 



THE SPIRIT-BIRD. 

The old man's breath came faint and slow 

As ebbed the tide of life away, 
His cheek had lost its ruddy glow, 

His eye its bold and fiery ray. 
Wasted was now the stalwart form, 

Nerveless the hand whose mastery 
Had ruled the deck in fight and storm, 

In every clime, on every sea. 

Lawless had been his checkered life,- 

Evil the deeds his hand had done, 
When in unholy, lawless strife 

Uncounted treasure he had won. 
Now, in the dreadful, solemn hour 

When Death unlinks the spirit's bands, 
Dead' memories awake to power, 

And call up distant scenes and lands. 

Though Devon's balmiest vernal breath 

Blows through his vine-embowered door, 
He feels the simoon's blast of death 

'Mid Afric's burning sands once more ; 
And then he hears the horrid din 

Of icebergs grate his vessel's side ; 
O'er crystal walls that hem him in, 

He sees their spectral masses glide. 



THE SPIRIT-BIRD. I3 

Again he's in the golden East, 

On seas where spicy odors creep, 
Where every zephyr bears a feast 

That makes life an enchanted sleep; 
Where bright-winged birds the islets range, 

'Mid forests of eternal green, 
And forms of beauty wild and strange 

On every mount and plain are seen. 

Where grand old storied rivers roll 

By tombs of nations passed away, 
Whose ruins still their might unfold, 

And preach to human hearts to-day. 
In grace and beauty half divine, 

The lotus, goddess of the flowers, 
Lights up old Nile's majestic shrine 

In welcome to the morning hours. 

He sees the dark-browed Southern men, 

Their savage speech is on his tongue, 
He hears their pagan rites, and then 

The Moslem's call to prayer is rung. 
Serene, sublime, before his sight 

The Sphinx her stony visage brings, 
The ibis in the cloudless light 

Waves round the Pyramids her wings. 

And lo ! a bird with pale, fair wings 
Gleams in the shade of closing day, 

And in the dark'ning chamber flings 
The radiance of the new moon's ray. 

Brightly now glow his glazing eyes, 
The anguish from his brow has passed, 



14 



THE SPIRIT-BIRD. 

A calm smile on his pale lip lies, 
The spirit-bird has come at last. } 

Oft he had ceased his childish play 

When, with mysterious, whispered word, 
His nurse told in the twilight gray 

The legend of the spectre bird : 
How for some deed of guilt untold, 

Too dark to breathe to mortal ear, 
One of his race in days of old 

Was doomed to wander ever here ; 

To hover in a form of dread 

About the footsteps of his race, 
And o'er their feasts and beds to spread 

The horror of his blasted face ; 
Until their children from the womb, 

The witness of the curse all bore, 
In baleful beauty blent with gloom 

That every noble feature wore ; 

But how by Faith and Charity, 

And valorous deeds in holy fray ; 
By prayer and saintly purity, 

Another turned the curse away ; 
Changing the doom to time of grace, 

A task of love in penance done, 
That with the last soul of the race 

Pardon and heaven might yet be won. 

The doomed one lost his frightful form, 
And as a bird of silvery plume, 



THE SPIRIT-BIRD. 

Came of the hour of death to warn, 
And bear the parting soul its doom, 

Its starry eye. with light from heaven, 
Brought peace unto the good man's bed, 

But baleful as the angry levin 

Glared o'er the dying sinner's head. 

He once had seen its snowy crest, 

And caught the mild glance of its eye, 
When the sister he had loved the best 

Lay down 'neath Southern skies to die ; 
And when the last hopes of his race 

Died all in baby innocence, 
Its smile upon each cherub face 

Had shed divinest radiance. 

Once on the tempest-tortured main, 

When his brother died amid its wail, 
He saw the look of wrath and pain 

That made his guilty spirit quail. 
Long years of penitence since then 

Had shed their snows upon his head, 
And deeds of good to living men 

Sought to atone wrongs to the dead. 

Oft he had started from his sleep, 

When dreams recalled that baleful glare, 
With still new penitence to weep, 

And soothe his anguished heart with prayer. 
How sweet now to his trembling soul 

Seemed the bright sheen of that pale wing, 
When he saw the eye above him roll 

Pardon and hope and peace to bring ! 



1 6 THE MADONNA. 

He was alone on his father's hearth, 

His death would break the prison chain 
That bound the doomed one to the earth, 

And end the watch of love and pain. 
'Tis o'er, — the gleaming wing is gone, 

No more to visit mortal eyes; 
The weary task of the bird is done, 

The doomed one rests in Paradise. 



THE MADONNA. 

" The head of the Virgin, within the chapel, is said to have been 
painted by angels while the painter slept." 

It was midnight, dewy summer night, 
And the fair summer moon shone o'er the domes 
And spires of Florence. Her busy thousands 
Slept unconscious 'mid her world of beauty : — 
The prince in velvet pomp ; the muleteer 
Upon the straw beside his weary beasts ; 
The mother with her babes \ the cavalier, 
And the gay maiden that returned his glance 
That morn upon the promenade ; — all slept, 
And dreamed such dreams perchance as mortals 

dreamed 
When earth was young before the flood, and such 
As visit now the couches of the living. 
At the window of a lofty chamber 
That o'erlooked the city an artist gazed 
Out on the night, and reveled in its beauty. 



THE MADONNA. 



17 



Above him hung the heavens of Italy, 

So deep and dark, flecked o'er with silver clouds, 

Among which burned the bright, unchanging stars, 

And sailed the changeful moon. Before him 

Rose the smiling slopes of Fesole, rising 

From the groves and plains of the fair home 

Of beauty, genius, and romance, Val d'Arno. 

Nearer arose the gorgeous palaces 

Of Florence's old nobles; and supreme 

Amid them all in consecrated beauty, 

The Duomo, its glorious dome, the wonder 

Of the world, hanging in simple majesty 

Unmatched, save by the star-bespangled arch 

Above, the dome of this vast, mighty fane, 

The earth, from which into Jehovah's ear 

Ascends the voice of an unceasing worship. 

Beside it stood its campanile, serene, 

Sublime, pointing to heaven, as though to teach 

The way that mortal thought should soar. All these, 

And countless sights of Nature's beauty 

And of human skill, the artist's eye drank in ; 

And the unquiet light faded in its dark depths, 

And his flushed cheek paled in the balmy air, 

As he surveyed the earth and heavens. He 

Had toiled all day, and many days, before 

His easel; and upon it glowed a form 

The embodiment of a poet's dream; 

Yet had he failed to realize the vision 

That for long had beamed on his rapt fancy. 

Oft he had blotted out, and oft essayed 

To paint a face whose lineaments approached 

The ideal of his soul's idolatry : 



1 8 THE MADONNA. 

The image that the god within him saw 
Of her whom men should blessed call, 
Throughout all time, the virgin mother 
Of the Lord. 

• Alas ! how often thus the lifeless work 
Of our gross hands of flesh mocks the bright visions 
Of the waked fancy in its ecstasy ! 
We dream such glorious things ; see in 
The regions of the ideal such pictures 
Of unearthly beauty ; hear such sounds 
Of heavenly and seraphic music ; 
And seek with words, with colors, and with song, 
To make them palpable to sense, and sicken 
As we feel that flesh can never compass 
Or portray the visions of the spirit. 
Thus was it now with the sick-hearted painter : 
He had risen from the seat where in despair 
He had surveyed his work ; and his rash hand 
Had once again effaced the lovely head 
It o'er and o'er had wrought, and now he leaned 
Upon the casement to revive his spirit 
With the beauty of God's works, and with 
The monuments of His best work of all, 
The human mind. 

He was young. The tide 
Of life coursed fresh and pure within his brave 
Young heart ; and youth's aerial dreams 
Were thronging thick and bright upon his mind. 
No gross or carnal sin had poisoned yet 
The fountain of his life. God and his art 
He worshiped ; and his art he sought to make 
Subservient to His glory, who gave 



THE MADONNA. 

His plastic hand its cunning, and poured 

Into his soul the light of genius. 

Sad and disquieted this night, his glance 

Up to the heavens was yet a worship 

And a prayer ; and worn with labor 

And discouragement he sank to sleep. 

There stood the picture, in its soft, bright tints, 

A gentle, loving mother, though his hand 

The face had marred, yet breathing beauty 

And divinity in every line of 

The all-perfect form ; and there beside 

The window lay the artist's slender form, 

Wrapped closely in its sable drapery, 

His white throat bared to the night wind's breath, 

Lifting the masses of his glossy hair, 

And his fair features delicately defined 

Against the moonlit sky. The now wan cheek 

Told painfully of labors, fasts, perchance 

Disease ; and the full outline of the broad 

White brow, e'en though the eye was shaded 

'Neath the pale-fringed lids, told yet the story 

Of the soul's hopes and fears, its exultations 

And discouragements ; and o'er the chiseled lines' 

Of the red lip flitted the sunshine 

Of an unstained soul. 

Long had he slept ; 
For the weak body, overtasked, oft takes 
On the impatient spirit its revenge 
In deep repose. Visions of the unseen world, 
Radiant with seraphim, had calmed and cheered 
His chafed and weary heart as he first oped 
His eyes upon the coming morn. And lo ! 



20 THE MADONNA. 

Aerial beings with soft, gleaming wings, 
That seem the counterpart of the blue skies 
Tinged with the rosy flushes of the dawn, 
And shining eyes aglow with love divine, 
Together work upon his canvas. 
A strangely sweet and holy awe stole o'er him 
As he gazed upon the wondrous artists 
And their glorious work ; and overcome 
With rapture and astonishment, he lost 
All sense of time or earth ; and as the workers 
Faded from his sight with heavenly songs, 
His spirit seemed to follow them. 

'Twas night 
Again, and the awakened artist stood 
Entranced before the picture, finished 
By angelic hands. His friends, alarmed 
At his long fasting and seclusion, 
Had sought him, and now stood beside him, 
Ravished with the beauty there portrayed. 
In faltering words he told the story 
Of his toil, and his despair, his slumber, dreams, 
And waking, and the seraph baud that came 
To clothe his bright conceptions with reality ; 
Then sank in breathless worship down before 
The work, and breathed his life out in a sigh 
Of full content. 

They buried him among 
The many monarchs of the world of mind, . 
Whose works and tombs have made Val d'Arno 
Holy ground, and bore the sacred picture 
To the altar. There, shrined in gold and gems 
Of untold price, through all the ages 



THE PESTILENCE. 21 

That have passed since then, millions have come 

To look upon its loveliness, and list 

Its history, and worship and adore. 

There still glow the everlasting tints 

Painted by those blest ministers of love, 

Who from their homes of light and glory 

Come as guardian angels still to earth, 

To comfort, guide, and help the pure in heart. 



THE PESTILENCE. 

The summer sun shone round us warm and glad ; 
The forests clothed themselves in bright array ; 
The flowers in hues of beauty bloomed ; 
The birds sang sweetly from the groves ; 
The dancing showers refreshed the thirsty earth ; 
The rainbows spread their robes upon the cloud ; 
The fireflies sparkled on the night ; and Nature, 
Fresh as from the hand divine she came, fulfilled 
Her graceful, happy round. The autumn came 
In royal garb, so grandly beautiful, 
We could not deem its glorious tints 
Tokened decay. The breeze fanned with as soft 
A breath the flowers as austral zephyrs 
In the summer's prime. The sun set in as rich 
A robe of crimson, gold, and purple 
As e'er wrapped his summer couch. Twilight dews 
Settled as softly on the earth as sleep 
Upon a nursing babe ; and all the day 

3 



22 THE PESTILENCE. 

The amber sunlight poured down pure and bright 
As it had never shone on aught but life and joy. 

Yet the foul Pestilence 
His loathsome orgies held unchecked 
Through all the wailing city. The still stars, 
That smiled so calmly beautiful, and roused 
The soul to love and worship, each one looked 
Upon some scene of death and agony. 
Within a lofty mansion, whose thick walls, 
And stately height, and spacious chambers 
Seemed the abode of ease and pleasure only, 
A mother, wife, one in whose presence cluster 
All the graces of a noble nature 
In its noblest form, a high-souled woman, 
Wrestled with the Fever Fiend ; and now 
The home has lost the priestess from its shrine, 
And strangers light the housefold fire. 

Before a cottage, where the honeysuckle 
And the jasmine-vine perfume the air 
With their late autumn blooms, the demon stopped, 
And Death came close behind ; and the strong man, 
The husband, father, and the healer of the sick, — 
He who had saved his brothers from the fiend, — 
Had caught his awful breath, and lay clothed 
For the tomb. The priest that prayed beside 
The loathsome death-bed, the nurse that smoothed 
The reeking pillow of disease for gain, 
The babe of a few days, and he that in 
Base coward fear had held aloof, alike 
Bowed to the poisoned shaft. Blanched cheeks, 
And quivering lips, and wailing sobs, 
Despair and death, filled all the stricken town. 



THE PESTILENCE. 23 

Mammon did hide his head ; and Charity 
Put on her heavenly garments, and went forth. 
Where'er the Pestilence had gone her footstep 
Followed him, and soothed the wretched victims, 
If she might not save them from his grasp. 

Then, though the demon riot in our streets, 
And rob us of our brightest and our best, 
Ye do well to smile, ye quiet autumn stars ; 
For it hath shown how linger still 
The Saviour's footprints in this carking world ; 
How man is still akin to God, despite 
His fall. It makes us seek to turn away 
From the foul spots that oft deface the image 
Of divinity to where it shineth still 
So brightly on the good man's brow. O ye 
Who blaspheme God, by speaking ill of man, 
His noblest work, go, see the good man, 
In the face of causeless hate and obloquy, 
With fevered frame and aching heart, by night 
And day, in storm and sun, with words of cheer 
And hanci of skill, facing the noisome fever 
In the poor man's squalid hut, soothing 
The unclean bed of death with gentle sympathy 
When skill had done its all, and taking to his home 
The orphaned poor that had no friend, — and learn 
How God hath made man upright, and by grace 
He can be upright still. 

This hath been the star 
To lighten up the darkness of the past. 
The Pestilence has sternly tried men's hearts, 
And the pure gold has shone out gloriously. 
We shed tears upon the tombs of martyrs 



24 



MISERERE P A UP E RUM. 



Of the olden time, and glow with rapture 

O'er the high heroic deeds of ages past ; 

But the heroic age has not gone by. 

Go to our silent, green Necropolis, 

Where, 'neath the clods, slumber the victims 

Of the Fever Fiend, the dust of martyrs 

Crumbles on its grassy slopes. Go thread 

Our crowded streets, where Mammon seems to reign 

Supreme in horrid greed and awful tyranny. 

Unknown, unmarked perchance, save by the eye 

That reads the heart, heroes now tread the paths, 

Whose noble deeds eclipse all ancient fame. 



MISERERE PAUPERUM. 

' Make to yourselves friends of the Mammon of unrighteousness ; that, 
when ye fail, they may receive you into everlasting habitations." 

The Sabbath bell is ringing, 

It calleth all to pray, 
And to its call are thronging 

Old men and maidens gay, 
And matron grace and beauty, 

And childhood's skipping feet ; — 
With smiles and careless laughter 

The falling snow they greet. 

The church doors scarcely open 
As worshipers throng in, 



MISERERE PA UP E RUM. 

Where the great stoves red and glowing 
Make summer warmth within. 

The organ pipes are pealing 

Sweet music through the crowd ; 

And practiced voices singing 
The praises of the Lord. 

From his knees the priest ariseth 

And biddeth all to pray, 
With earnest voice uplifted, 

To Him who rules the day ; 
And afterwards he telleth 

How the heathen far away, 
Know not the God of heaven, 

Nor have seen the gospel ray. 

Then he calleth for the treasure 

To send the preacher there, 
Whose feet upon the mountains 

A holy beauty wear ; 
Because he bringeth tidings 

Of good that ne'er shall cease, 
And to benighted nations 

He publisheth of peace. 

Quick in the basin ringing 

The silver and the gold, 
The people pour right gladly 

Before the words are cold ; 
And after solemn blessing 

Go forth into the street, 
Wrapping their furs about them 

The winter's face to meet. 



2 5 



26 MISERERE PAUPERUM. 

Hard by that splendid temple 

Stands a squalid, open hut, 
Whose crazy door, wide swinging, 

Refuses to stay shut. 
No spark is in its chimney, 

And on its hearthstone old, 
Cower two hungry children 

And a woman pale with cold. 

They shiver as the tempest 

Drives through the open door, 
Binding their rags about them 

More closely than before ; 
And the mother wildly presses 

The infant at her breast, 
While her quiv'ring lips low mutter 

A prayer for warmth and rest. 

O ye who in your velvets, 

Your furs and costly lace, 
That Sabbath-day went happy 

Into the holy place, 
Look not abroad for heathen, 

When at the temple door, 
Beneath the stormy heavens, 

Sitteth the freezing poor ! 

The Lord claims all the treasure, 
The silver and the gold 

Are lent but for a season 
Into thy grasping hold ; 



"HE'S SOME ONE'S BAIRN: 

Then while thy season lasteth 
Make to thyself a friend 

Of the unrighteous Mammon, 
Ere thy stewardship shall end. 

Give to the naked raiment 

To warm them in their need, 
And from thy loaded table 

Thy hungry brother feed, 
That in the final judgment 

Thy silver and thy gold 
May make thee habitations 

Within the heavenly fold. 



27 



"HE'S SOME ONE'S BAIRN." 

Fierce tempest waves of guilt may roll 

Their surges o'er the felon's soul ; 

Of God's pure image in his face 

Scarce may remain the faintest trace, 

And Passion in its stead may set 

Its demon lineaments ; but yet 

He's some one's bairn, to some fond heart 

His fall has sent a deadly dart. 

He was some woman's tender child 
With gentle cradle songs beguiled 
In circling arms unto his rest 
Close to a mother's loving breast. 



28 "HE'S SOME ONE'S BAIRN." 

Some father's proud, delighted eye 
Dwelt on his face with hopes as high 
As human hearts on earth may bear : 
He's some one's bairn, harsh words forbear. 

A father mayhap led astray 
His feet from virtue's heavenward way ; 
Taught him at holy things to mock, 
His mother's tender heart to shock ; 
Held to his lips the madd'ning bowl 
That in its Lethe drowned his soul ; 
Not thine to deal the chast'ning rod : 
He's some one's bairn, leave him to God. 

Or, oh ! — a destiny more sad, 
No mother e'er caressed the lad. 
Lost ere his hapless infant heart 
Had gained the strength her cares impart, 
A step-dame cold sought not to win 
To ways of virtue, kept from sin : 
Though passions vile his soul destroy, 
He's some one's bairn in Aiden's joy. 

Perchance in the reviling crowd, 
By Sorrow T 's heavy burden bowed, 
With pallid lip and bated breath 
Tasting the bitterness of death, 
Some tender, loving, breaking heart 
May on thy words see hope depart : 
The bruised reed, O do not break ! 
He's some one's bairn, then gently speak. 



VAUMONE EST SCEUR DE LA PRIERE." 2 g 

None e'er can know how every hour 

The soul may recognize the power 

Of prayers despised and slighted love, 

And seek to rise its sin above ; 

How penitence before unfelt 

The sinful soul at last may melt : 

He's some one's bairn, in love and prayer 

Balm to the wounded spirit bear. 



"L'AUMONE EST SCEUR DE LA PRIERE." 

(Victor Hugo.) 

The warm sun upon the wet, storm-beaten earth 

Is pouring this morning his clear amber beams, 
And the black mud that everywhere spreadeth around 

Is bathed in the bright, golden, heart-cheering beams. 
Overhead, without cloud, shines the deep azure sky 

With a pure Sabbath beauty, befitting the day ; 
And I feel that the eye of the Father of Love 

Is bent through its depths on his children of clay. 

Worn and weary the wayfaring man passes on 

'Neath the beam of that sky ; and spirits all light 
Are gazing in pity, and hope that thy heart 

Will be touched at beholding his sad, woeful plight. 
Nay, turn him not off; give a morsel to eat, 

For the sake of the dear Lord who came to the earth, 
And dwelt here, a wayfaring stranger like him, 

To teach us humanity's measureless worth. 



3 o "BLESS GOB FOR TREES." 

It may be that sin and the hot cup have marked 

His brow with defilement's most withering brand ; 
Yet scan not too close, see the image of God 

In his sore, pressing need, and withhold not thy hand. 
It is little, indeed, that he asks ; and we go 

To the altar this morning a blessing to pray 
On our basket and store, — on the work of our hands, — 

Then turn not God's poor from our portal away. 

There are many who come thus, 'tis true ; but who gave 

The dainties that garnished this morning our board ? 
The same hand that nourished the wheat sent him here 

To be fed with his bounties, — the hand of the Lord. 
Did that hand but withhold for one moment to give 

His sunshine or rain, and his blessing on all, 
Oh ! where were the food you so niggard would save? — 

Not a morsel is thine if his frown on it fall. 



"BLESS GOD FOR TREES." 

Bless God for trees ! they lift on high 
Their breezy banners to the sky, 
A canopy whose glory shames 
Man's proudest work that honor claims, 
And yield a wealth of pleasure, worth 
The grateful homage of the earth. 

Bless God for trees ! for leaf and bloom 
That upland now and glade perfume ; 



"BLESS GOB FOR TREES:' 31 

For luscious fruits'in summer prime ; 
For gorgeous tints in autumn time ; — 
The poet's sweetest, grateful song 
Unto the greenwood tree belong. 

Bless God for trees ! the fainting herd 

Rest 'neath the leaves by soft winds stirred 3 

The birds there chant their loving song 

In varied tones the summer long ; 

There man seeks shade and song and breeze, — 

Beast, bird, and man bless God for trees. 

Bless God for trees ! that verdant crown 
Seems like an Eden in the town ; 
As precious to the aching sight, 
Amid the blaze of heat and light, 
As haven to the storm-tost ship, 
Or streams unto the thirsting lip. 

Bless God for trees ! how proud they stand ! 

A temple built by God's own hand, 

And rear a dome above our heads 

Through which the sun mild radiance sheds r 

Upon the soft, green, mossy floor, 

Where flowers their praise in fragrance pour. 

Bless God for trees ! did He not deign 
Aught other witness of his name, 
The yearly miracle that clothes 
Their*limbs each spring with waving robes, 
And keeps them bright through scorching heat, 
The atheist's reasoning could defeat. 



3 2 



THE PRAYER. 

Bless God for trees ! the jeweled sky 
Their glory now can scarce outvie : 
Not more the starry host the pride 
Of human science doth deride, 
Than the proud monarch of the wood, 
God's minister to man for good. 

Bless God for trees ! the children play 
Beneath them in their glad spring day ; 
And the last scene that lingers round 
The old man's death-bed is the sound 
Of the wind-whispers in the tree 
'Neath which he played in boyish glee. 

Bless God for trees ! glory and might, 
Beauty and love, and life's delight, 
They symbolize unto the heart, 
In all its joys and woes take part ; 
O'ershade the tryst of youthful love, 
And mourn the quiet grave above. 



THE PRAYER. 

Upon the stilly midnight air 

I heard a voice of earnest prayer, 

Where knelt with thin locks silver white 

An aged man in the dim light. 

Of lofty port and spirit bold, 

He was no man of common mould ; 



THE PRAYER. 

For he had drunk the world's applause; 
Had stamped his name on a nation's laws ;- 
A master-mind, with tongue and pen s 
'Twas his to lead his fellow-men. 

I paused the sage's prayer to hear; — 
For power to reach Jehovah's ear, 
The secret of approach to Heaven, 
Methought to such was surely given. 
No nicely culled rhetoric phrase, 
No labored form of sounding praise 
Like those in gorgeous fanes oft sung, 
Was falling from the sage's tongue ; 
But simplest form of human speech 
Was that his nightly prayer did teach. 

Meekly, as when with holy oy 

The mother taught her infant boy 

Beside her knee God's care to own, 

I heard pronounced with rev' rent tone : — 

" Now I lay me down to sleep, 

I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep ; 

If I should die before I wake, 

I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take." 

And as the wise head there was bowed, 

Forgotten were its honors proud. 

My purged eye saw an angel form, 
Like sunlight bursting through the storm, 
Making the dark, still chamber bright ; 
Crowning his silver locks with light; 
4 



34 CHRISTMAS. 

Then, as the heavenly vision fled, 

A voice, sweet as a wind harp, said: — 

" Ye must be like a little child 

To come to me, the Undefiled ; 

For always in the holy place 

Their angels see my Father's face." 

It is related of Chief Justice Marshall, that on being asked by an 
admirer of his wisdom and learning what prayers he usually employed 
in his private devotions, the aged sage replied that he habitually said 
the infant prayer his mother taught him ; and on being pressed to ex- 
plain what that was, with a blush rising to his cheek, said, " Oh, 
nothing, only, ' Now I lay me down to sleep.' " 



CHRISTMAS. 



Hark ! the joyful Christmas bell ! 
Merrily the glad notes swell, 
Welcoming the holy day, 
Ushered first by angel lay. 
Welcome we with songs the morn 
When the Prince of Peace was born. 

Jocund shouts forestalled the sun 

With frequent sound of squib and gun, 

While around the hearthstone bright 

Children crowd with wild delight, 

To see the yearly festal treats, 

The stockings filled with toys and sweets. 

Gifts exchanged by old and young, 
Loving words on every tongue, 



CHRISTMAS. 

Eggnog from the foaming bowl, 
Make the moments gayly roll ; 
A light of mingled mirth and love 
Marks the day, all days above. 

Hark ! again the church's bell 
Now of holy rites doth tell ; — 
Through the green-wreathed sacred aisle 
Summer seems again to smile, 
As Nature's self had blest the day 
When the curse was done away. 

Mingling with the anthem's sound 
Spicy odors float around 
From the cedar boughs that shed 
A softened light o'er altar spread 
For the Eucharistic feast, 
Hallowed by the white-robed priest. 

Haste with quick and willing feet, 
Offer up thanksgiving meet ; 
Pray with grateful, loving heart, 
Nor without the feast depart : 
Sanctify the Yule-tide's light 
With the highest, holiest rite. 



35 



36 "GIVE MY LOVE TO GOD: 



"GIVE MY LOVE TO GOD." 

Some one tells a story of a little child, whispering into the dull, cold 
ear of its dead playmate, " Please give my love to God." 

Pale waxen infant in thy shroud, 
Fairer than noonday's silver cloud, 
When thou reach'st the land of light, 
With smiles of God forever bright, 
O give my love to God ! 

Guardian angels, who surround 
The feet with chains of flesh yet bound, 
Teach me still as a little child 
To keep my spirit undefiled, 
And give my love to God. 

Sweet-voiced bird, that upward soaring, 
Close to heaven thy glad song pouring, 
Passing beyond our earth-bound sight, 
Seemest to reach a purer light, 
O give my love to God ! 

Soft night wind, that in gentle play 
Kissest the flowers and then away, 
Laden with perfume travelest on 
To cheer and bless some weary one, 
O give my love to God ! 



"GIVE MY LOVE TO GOD." 37 

Bright stars, that gem the brow of night, 
Sun panoplied in strength and light, 
Red clouds, that drape the sky at even, 
Mists, rainbows, all things near to heaven, 
O give my love to God ! 

There's not a single blade of grass, 
Or buzzing insect that doth pass 
In happy life on earth or air, 
But from the pure in heart may bear 
Their constant love to God. 

Sad mourner, weeping o'er thy dead, 
Robed for the narrow, silent bed, 
Prepare the chambers of thy heart, 
That the freed spirit may depart, 
Bearing thy love to God. 

When the last summons comes to me, 
May I a messenger thus be, 
More than aught other office worth, 
To bear the glorious charge from earth, 
Of a saint's love to God ! 



4* 



38 SHUT THE DOOR. 



SHUT THE DOOR. 

Shut the door, let the wild winter wind howl without, 
Let the black clouds hang heavy, the loud thunders 

roar, 
And the rain, sleet, and snow swell the storm demon's 

rout : 
You have brightness within if you shut close the 

door. 

Shut the door of the ear : the coarse, ribald jest 

And the blasphemous ravings will pass harmless o'er, 

The skeptic may prate of his doctrine unblest ; — 
Faith and pureness remain if you keep shut that 
door. 

Shut the door of the lips : Detraction's foul breath 
Shall her gall on the heart of thy brother ne'er pour; 

Nor profanity's venom, more blighting than death, 
Thy pure lips distain if you shut but that door. 

Shut the door of the eyes : the trappings of pride, 
Enticements to lavish adornment no more 

Shall tempt thy weak spirit, in Fashion's mad tide, 
To wreck truth and honor, while closed is that door. 

Shut the door of the ears, of the lips and the eyes, 
And the heart in the glory in Eden it wore 

Will open its door to a guest from the skies, 

Who dwells in all hearts that ope to it the door. 



OLD CALVARY. 39 

Ope that door, and the portals of heaven wide spread 
Shall open thy love-tended footsteps before ; 

And the eye, lip, and ear with all fullness be fed, 
In that land where we never more need shut the door. 



OLD CALVARY. 

(Now a dwelling-house.) 

It ne'er can be a common house, 
Sacred its walls will still remain, 

Though given up to common use, 
It ne'er can be profane. 

'Twas sanctified by fervent prayers, 

By hymns of love and praise, 
By mournful dirges for the dead, 

By joyous festal lays. 

It held a blessed chancel rail, 

Where stood a white-robed priest, 

Who fitted there the spousal ring 
When nuptial anthems ceased. 

Forth from that door, with words of hope, 

Was borne the holy dead, 
Whose footsteps to 'its blessed walls 

The weeping sinner led. 



4o 



OLD CALVARY. 

There loving people lowly knelt 

To feast on "angel's food," 
And drink salvation's healing cup 

Close by the holy Rood. 

There penitential tears were shed, 
As souls were won to Heaven ; 

And there the Church's benison 
By hallowed lips was given. 

There listened oft a little flock 

To a loved pastor's voice, 
Who, waiting now in Paradise, 

Doth with the saints rejoice. 

There words of matchless, varied power 

Fell from his gifted tongue ; 
There, tranced and raptured, on his words, 

The thirsting people hung. 

The grave hath closed o'er loving hearts 
That worshiped there with me ; 

And while I live a hallowed spot 
That uncouth roof will be. 

I'd grieve to see its place supplied 

By art's most rare device : 
It seems a link between my soul 

And those in Paradise. 



'HEDGE HER IN: 



41 



"HEDGE HER IN." 

" Hedge her in/' ye earnest hearts and true, 
The loveliest thing earth ever knew, — 
A daughter, wife, a mother chaste, 
That father, husband, and son has graced 
With the proudest glory man has worn 
In the lowly cot, on the loftiest throne, — 
The earthly thing least touched with sin 
Is a pure woman's love in home hedged in. 

Keep her a woman, a mate for man, 
Taken from where his heart's blood ran ; 
Formed by the great All Father's hand, 
Not "to reach up where a man may stand," 
But in her own sphere by His word made plain, 
Content beneath man's rule to remain ; 
Keeping her place the home within ; — 
The truest charities "hedge her in." 

Keep her a woman, with modest grace 
Seeking the path to heaven to trace, — 
Not by lecture or trenchant pen 
Lashing the follies or sins of men, — 
With the meek, quiet spirit above all price 
Turning away from the haunts of vice, 
Shaming the brazen face of sin : 
Out of the rude world, oh, " hedge her in !" 



42 



"HEDGE HER IN" 

Hedge her in safely. Oh,- for the days 
When her sweet, modest womanly ways 
Made all the paths by her pure feet trod 
Sacred to manhood, next to God ! 
When men were manly, and that because 
Women were womanly, by Heaven's laws, 
Gathered the tenderest folds within : 
For your son's manliness, " hedge her in !" 

"Only a woman !" avaunt the thought 

By godless lips to purer taught. 

" Only a woman" was never said 

By a man whose feet a true mother led : 

'Twas the treason-cry of some woman lost, 

From womanhood's anchorage safe, sin-tost ; 

For nothing to man hath ever been 

More precious than woman, by God hedged in. 

" Only a woman," yet crowding men 
In the walks of life most meet for them ; 
Then shaking her curls and wringing her hands 
With puny, unwomanly, fierce demands 
For the chivalrous courtesy only due 
To the feminine weakness which she threw 
Aside, to strive in the dust and din, 
In womanly paths no more hedged in. 

They were only women ; but oh ! how sweet 
In the family Bible the list to meet, 
Of the modest, queenly, olden dames 
With whom our blood proud kindred claims; 



THE ROSE'S LESSON. 



43 



Who never voted, or lectured, or preached, 
Whose hands out to man's work never reached, 
From his world-stained wreath a leaf to win, 
But themselves and their daughters in home hedged in ! 



THE ROSE'S LESSON. 

A crimson-hued rose in a bower was blowing 

At morn when Aurora first blushed o'er the earth ; 

Bright dewdrops of eve from its bosom were flowing, 
And perfume, as incense, gave thanks for its birth. 

By its side a pale sister was drooping and dying, 

Whose beauty but yesterday gladdened the heart ; — 

Some petals e'en now in the black mould were lying, 
Which the rude wind had torn from its bosom apart. 

The proud one just opening looked with disdain, 
As it spread its rich bloom to the honey bee's kiss, 

On the pale withered breast, where decay's fatal stain 
Had effaced all the beauty that lately waked bliss. 

Then the pale one, who saw how the bee, fickle rover, 
Was praising the new-risen queen of the day, 

And how she blushed brighter to welcome the lover 
Whose passion she fancied would never decay : 

"Ah, sister!" with dying breath, faintly she sighed, 
6 ' That epicure robber will rifle thy sweets, 



44 " OH, WOULD I WERE NOT!" 

While the soft-buzzing madrigal fanneth thy pride, 
Which he still every morn to a new one repeats. 

" Yestermorn I was blooming as happy as thou, 

While fhat brown-winged deceiver was wooing me 
near, 

But the noon sun and night wind have faded my brow, 
And my false lover's song now is charming thy ear. 

" Let my fate thy vain pride and thy scorn now abate, 
And teach thee in meekness to taste and be still, 

Of the bounties bestowed on thy short sunny state, 
And humbly thy mission of sweetness fulfill." 

Thus often does Youth in the height of its bloom 
Look with scorn on the brow that Time's winter has 
faded, 
Not dreaming its ruin but shadows their own 

When a few years their buds in Life's chaplet have 
braided. 



"OH, WOULD I WERE NOT TOO 
COWARDLY TO DIE!" 

Nay, be not the coward, to dream thus of death, 
To blanch at the first cutting pang of a grief, 

Despairing because the wild tempest's rude breath 
In thy garland has withered one summer-bright leaf; 

But gird up thy loins ; be strong for the fight : 

'Tis the coward alone who thinks thus of flight. 



« OH, WOULD I WERE NOTl" 45 

What though a sweet vision, long cherished, be o'er ! 

Life's plain, honest duties are sweeter than dreams 
To the true heart, that shuts not its heaven-blest door 

To the claims of the love from the hearthstone that 
beams, — 
They only are true hearts, they only are brave, 
Who live : 'tis the coward that flees to the grave. 

The conflict is long, but there's strength in the strife; 

And hearts must not break, nor yet brokenly live ; 
The angels beside the pure river of life 

Are waiting the victor the guerdon to give 
Who sheathed not the sword ere the battle was done, 
Who claimed not the crown till by fight it was won. 

Ungrateful ! cast round thee thy passion-dazed eyes ; 

On thy pathway a thousand sweet blossoms are 
strewn, — 
A thousand bright streams of refreshment arise, 

And music and sunshine thy heart to attune 
To the anthems of worship the morning stars sang, 
And the chorus the angels in unison rang. 

List but to that music, its echoes shall wake 
A sweet, grateful melody deep in thy soul, 

Divine as the rapturous anthems that brake 
The silence, when light on the universe stole ; 

And life will grow beautiful, spite of its pain, 

The heart gush with love, trust, and joy again. 



46 THE GIFT OF SONG. 



THE GIFT OF SONG. 

If, when bright visions o'er thee throng, 
They clothe themselves in words of song, 
And strengthen and refresh thy soul, 
Though weak and faint the numbers roll, 
Yet fear not thou to sing. 

If common life to thee keep tune 
Unto some mystic chanting rune, 
And all the actual grows bright 
In Fancy's soft ideal light, 

Thou hast the power to sing. 

If on each living human face 
Thy unsealed vision loves to trace, 
Through Sin's most loathsome outward form, 
God's image stamped in colors warm, 
Thou art a poet, — sing. 

When sorrow bows thy burdened head, 
And clouds above thy pathway spread, 
If in thy grief, with radiant wing, 
The Muse e'er woos thee to her spring, 
Fear not to sip and sing. 

When life blooms, like a new-made bride, 
With hope, and love, and grateful pride, 



THE GIFT OF SONG. 

And earth to thy illumined eye 
With Aiden seems in sheen to vie, 
If joy is tuneful, — sing. 

When morning blushes o'er the earth 
In rosy freshness, bloom, and mirth, 
And birdlings from each jeweled spray 
Awake to hail the new-born day, 
If music haunt thee, — sing. 

If, when thy glances seek the sky, 
Where sunset hues its pavement dye, 
Thy spirit clank its fleshly chain, 
Struggling to make its utterance plain, 
Unbind the links, and sing. 

It may be that thy lyre's faint tone 
No magic master-key may own ; 
Thy faltering steps may never reach 
Within Fame's sacred fane a niche; 
But yet fear not to sing. 

As well the twittering wren might fear 
With his soft strain the day to cheer, 
Because the nightingale's proud note 
In richer melody doth float, 

And thus refuse to sing, 

As thou because on stronger wing 
Another scale Fame's height and sing : 
Their harps' immortal echoes wake 
A thousand lesser shells to take 
Part in creation's hymn. 



47 



48 THE GIFT OF SONG. 

Fear not the heaven-descended power, 
Nor blush to use thy sacred dower \ 
Some hearts in silent grief may ache ; 
But some, if mute, e'en joy would break, 
And sad or glad, must sing. 

If to one tender, human heart 

Thy songs a throb of joy impart, 

Each note from thy weak harp-string thrown 

Will swell the mighty choral tone 

God taught the world to sing. 
< 

But if to thee no radiant sheen 
Light up the roughest human mien ; 
If life wear not a glorious light 
Beyond what meets the common sight, 

Be still, nor dare to sing. 

If human faith and human love 
In thee no sacred worship move ; 
If in fair Nature's open eye 
No great, eternal beauty lie, 

Be sure thou canst not sing. 

If thy calm pulse and even blood 
Course not at times a lava flood, 
With suffocating tide of thought 
By noble deeds, or evil, brought, 

Such cool blood cannot sing. 

If o'er thy heart no gushing tide 
Of fancies bright to music glide, 



THE RAIN. 

No forms unseen by outward eye 
Within thy spirit's vision lie, 

'Tis vain, thou canst not sing. 

Touch not, with hand profane, the lyre 
Unbaptized with the sacred fire : 
Study may give the tricks of art, 
But cannot the bard's power impart 
To other souls to sing. 



49 



THE RAIN. 



The rain, the longed-for summer rain, 

Is coming down at last ; 
Over the city, the wood, the plain, 

A misty veil is cast : 
The children of men with dust-dimmed eyes, 

And a prayer in every heart, 
Look fearful up to the cloud-draped skies, 

Lest the welcome signs depart. 

The rain, the pleasant summer rain, 

Comes pattering from the eaves, 
The grateful music rings again 

From the dust-besprinkled leaves. 
O children of men, from sleep arise, 

To worship the loving hand 
That sends the life stream from the skies 

To heal the fainting land ! 

5* 



5o 



THE RAIN. 

The rain, the cooling summer rain, 

How it brightens the crisp, brown grass ! 
How the odors of blossom and ripened grain 

Sweep by as the sweet drops pass ! 
The cattle upon a thousand hills 

On freshened pastures fed, 
Are drinking content the tide that fills 

The dried-up streamlet's bed. 

The rain, the grateful summer rain, 

It falleth alike on all : 
On the child of Want in his aching pain ; 

On the dweller in Splendor's hall ; 
On him whose heart and hands are clean ; 

On the wretch with the mark of Cain ; — 
And lordly man, and reptile mean, 

Bless God for the summer rain. 

The blessed rain of heavenly grace 

Is falling on human souls, 
And the stain of the mire of earth's wild chase 

Away on the bright drops rolls; 
The heart that in sin lay scorched and dead 

To a higher life has birth, 
Whence flowers of love and holiness shed 

Sweet perfume o'er the earth. 



THE SUNSHINE. 



Si 



THE SUNSHINE. 

I smile on the breast of the naked earth, 

Awaking it up to beauty and mirth \ 

For the frost dissolves in my genial ray, 

And the streams leap forth on their shining way ; 

And the tiny blades of the tender grass 

Grow green where my light-winged footsteps pass. 

I open the violet's azure eye ; 

I paint on the tulip's cheek its dye ; 

I ripen the farmer's fields of grain 

Which glisten and shine in my golden rain, 

With a promise of plenty in cot and hall 

When the waving heads in the harvest fall. 

I sweeten the melon, plum, and peach ; 

And in lessons of love the world I teach ; 

For I circle the globe with warmth and light, 

Making its desolate places bright. 

The birds come forth at my soundless voice ; 

With music the woods and groves rejoice ; 

The insects bathe in my amber tide, 

On tinted wings in my colors dyed. 

I peep in the closed-up homes of men, 

To call out the children to glade and glen, 

Whose cheeks grow rosy beneath my kiss, 

While my warmth gives strength and awakens bliss. 

With golden fingers I part the clouds 

Whose misty veil the earth enshrouds ; 



52 



THE RAINBOW. 



And all things laugh when I show my face, 
Exulting to meet my warm embrace. 
A spirit of love from the throne of God, 
I bless every spot by my bright feet trod ; 
And show thee, O mortal, how to live, 
That thy presence may joy to others give. 



THE RAINBOW. 

When the earth has been torn by the rage of the storm, 

As he rushes away, on his wing I am born. 

I smile in the face of my father, the sun, 

Whose light on the cloud my bright garment has spun ; 

The fields dressed in diamonds sparkle and glow 

In the glory I shed upon all things below, 

And men gazing upward, the symbol adore 

Of God's loving promise renewed evermore. 

In the mansion of bliss, where the souls of the just 
Shall bask in the smile of the Lord they here trust ; 
Where they need not the sun for the splendors that play 
From the waters of life in its shadowless day; 
Where the pearly gates echo with anthems of praise 
Renewed through Eternity's measureless days ; 
Where nothing can enter that earth-stain has worn, 
The rainbow with glory encircles the throne. 



THE CLOUDS. 



S3 



THE CLOUDS. 

High up on the hill-tops at morn 

I wave my silvery banner bright, 
The folds of my mantle adorn 

The rough face of the bare rocky height : 

I rise in the gleam 

Of the sun's warm beam, 
Aloft in azure waves of sky ; 

At noontide I float 

In my crystal boat, 
Till the daylight begins to die. 

When the curtain of twilight is drawn 
To lull to sleep the bustling world ; 
When the stars on the darkness first dawn, 
Back again to the earth I am hurled. 

I leave in the grass 

I lightly pass 
My footprints bright in drops of dew ; 

And my fleecy hair 

Round the blossoms fair 
I twine all the night hours through. 



54 



SUMMER. 



SUMMER. 

The fervid Summer blows her fiery breath, 

And like a furnace glows the air, 
And stillness almost as the hush of death 

Broods in the hot noon everywhere : 

Life-giving stillness, for the potent heat 

Wakes in the bosom of the earth 
The seeds that spring its genial breath to meet, 

And give wealth and abundance birth. 

The ripened grain, kissed by the amorous sun, 
Is harvested on every golden field, 

The peach grows ruddy, and the purple plum 
And cooling melon luscious treasures yield. 

How pleasant then, the Spring-time labor done, 
To bask in idless 'neath the shade 

Of whispering trees, list'ning the droning hum 
Of the bee's languid serenade ! 

The firefly glancing in the dewy night, 

The katydid's continuous song, 
With mingled sweets of flowerets unite 

The noontide idless to prolong. 

Sweet, languid, luscious Summer-time, 
Time for soft dreams in waking sleep, 

Who loves not in thy golden slumbrous prime 
Heart, mind, and senses all to steep ? 



WINTER. 



55 



WINTER. 

The Spring-time is bright, and its blossoms are sweet, 

But the Winter is bright, too, to me ; 
And its hours as gayly and merrily fleet, 

And I love e'en its tempests to see. 

The cold, bracing wind sets the blood in a glow ; 

How alive is the hard-frozen pond ! 
How gayly the light, fleecy snowball they throw ! 

Of its sports the dear children how fond ! 

The bright, blazing fire is as warm as the sun, 

How merry it crackles and roars ! 
Oh, Summer has nothing to equal the fun, 

When Winter reigns king out-of-doors ! 

'Tis the time to eat popcorn, crack nuts, and tell tales, 

Round the fire in close, merry ranks ; 
For popping of crackers the Yule-tide to hail, 

Drinking eggnog, and all sorts of pranks. 



5 6 THE BUTTERFLIES. 



THE BUTTERFLIES. 

Children of Summer, we come with the flowers, 

Wakened to life by the sun's ardent kiss, 
We sport in the sunshine through all the bright hours, 

Free from all care in our innocent bliss. 
Should the storm gather, we shrink from its power, 

Hiding away in some fragrant retreat, 
Deep in the shade of a bright leafy bower, 

We wait till the sunshine again we can greet. 
We are the butterflies, born with the flowers, 

Which open to yield up their sweets to our kiss ; 
We are the butterflies, we are the butterflies, 

Made but to flutter all summer in bliss. 

Children of daylight, at darkness we tremble, 

The night dews unpluming our delicate wings ; 
We sleep when by moonlight the fairies assemble, 

Lulled by the music the soft zephyr sings: 
When the first arrow the sun's golden finger 

Shoots from the sky to our nightly retreat, 
Not for a moment in slumber we linger, 

But hasten the beautiful day-beam to greet. 
We are the butterflies, children of pleasure, 

Fed by the sweets which the summer-time brings ; 
We are the butterflies, we are the butterflies, 

Waving in sunlight our delicate wings. 



THE FIREFLY. 



57 



THE FIREFLY. 

I am coming, I am coming, 

On the balmy summer breeze, 
When the katydid is drumming 

All the night among the trees. 
Then I lighten, then I lighten, 

Like a star upon the grass, 
And the jasmine-buds will brighten 

When with golden lamp I pass. 

I am shining, I am shining, 

Where the fairy people dance, 
Till they flee at night's declining 

From the day-god's burning glance. 
Then I slumber, then I. slumber, 

In a lowly grassy bed, 
While the sons of men slow number 

Days of toil o'er my head. 



MELANCHOLY. 

Hence, ye mirthful sports deluding, 
Born of Folly's motley crew; 

Pensive thought in silence brooding 

Hath a joy more pure and true. 

6 



5 8 FAITH. 

Shrinking from the chase of pleasure, 
In some cool, sequestered shade, 

Finds she Wisdom's richest treasure 
In her own calm heart displayed. 

Mirth may laugh away the hours 

Where the pleasure-lovers play, 
But the sober-tinted flowers 

Sadness wears, no thorns betray. 
Never song, great thought revealing, 

Bard to human soul did waft, 
But to reach the core of feeling 

Melancholy winged the shaft. 



FAITH. 



The substance of that dream 

To which man's longing soars, 
The proof of things unseen 

On the eternal shores, 
I visit earthly bowers 

To lift man's blinded eye 
Beyond their fading flowers, 

That, ats he grasps them, die. 

I point to that bright land 

Where the blossoms never fade, 

Where a sinless angel band 

Their deathless garlands braid. 



FAITH. 

I o'er life's transient sorrow 
A lambent radiance throw, 

Which from that realm I borrow, 
And I hallow all below. 

I give with open hand, 

Nor ask if I can spare ; 
Let Want but make demand, 

For naught beyond I care. 
I trust the hand that feedeth 

The ravens when they cry, 
Secure that all earth needeth 

That hand will aye supply. 

I count the burden small 

Beneath which now I bend, 
Feeling it soon must fall 

Where rest shall never end. 
I dare the rack and fire 

With unblenched cheek and eye, 
Knowing the martyr's pyre 

A stairway to the sky. 



59 



6o WEIGHED AND FOUND WANTING. 



"THOU ART WEIGHED IN THE BAL- 
ANCE AND FOUND WANTING." 

Weighed in thy balance, dreadful God, 

What mortal man that test may stand ? 
A mite of dust that earth has trod, 

Fill up the scale held by thy hand ! 
Gather each prayer my lips have said, — 

The stain of earth is on them all ; 
Heap in each cup, each crust of bread, 

Given in thy name, — how poor and small ! 
Search out my life, and every word 

Of gentleness, or ruth, or love ; 
Each generous thought on earth unheard, 

But echoed in the realms above ; 
And in thy boundless mercy cast 

Forth from their midst the taint of sin 
That sullies all from first to last ; 

Then place them thy pure scale within, — 
The debt we owe unto thy love 

Would e'en a mountain mass outweigh. 
Oh, if Thou thus our souls must prove, 

Who, who could ever dare to pray ! 

But — wonder never dreamed by man 

Till from thy throne the message came ! — 

One drop of that pure stream that ran 
In Calvary's bitter pain and shame, 



MUSIC. 6 1 

Within that balance I may place 

Where my good deeds so lightly weigh, 
And humbly, yet undaunted, face 

The thunders of thy judgment-day. 
Saviour, to Thee, weak, sinful all, 

Oh, let me ever cast my eyes, 
Still hold to Thee, e'en when I fall, 

And by thy help still seek to rise ; 
While here I stay, with me abide, 

And when within the balance bound, 
That precious drop from thy pierced side 

Give me, lest I be '.'wanting" found. 

These lines were written for Maria Barnett, a dearly-loved pupil, 
now gone to " the rest that remaineth for the people of God," on her 
saying that the words "Thou art weighed," etc. always thrilled her 
with an awful dread. 



MUSIC. 



Child of the heavens, I come to the earth 

To comfort the children of men 
With dreams of the bright, blissful home of my birth, 

To which their desires all tend. 
Formless, unseen on the bodiless air, 

I am borne to the deeps of the heart, 
With magical skill there to medicine care, 

And rest and refreshment impart. 
O'er the forest's green bosom I flutter my wing, 

And all the sweet songsters awake, 
6* 



62 MAKING THE DEACON. 

The wild woodland echoes with melody ring, 

And singing brooks soft answer make. 
I breathe o'er the ocean's wild surges, and lo ! 

Each billow a voice hath found, 
And forth from the treasure-caves fathoms below 

Are borne the deep pulses of sound. 
In the sob of the tempest, the sigh of the breeze, 

The summer flies' buzzing and hum, 
The laughter of children, the rustle of trees, 

On my mission of gladness I come. 
Yet these are but earth tones : at home in the skies, 

Unfettered my ravishing voice 
I utter as seraph to seraph replies, 

And saints in God's presence rejoice. 



MAKING THE DEACON. 

With meek, bent brow, and earnest mien, 

We saw the Candidatus stand 
Within the chancel's prismic sheen, 

Waiting the apostolic hand 
Aside to set him for the Lord. 

As the sweet anthem ceased to ring 
Melodious through the holy place, 

The dying cadence seemed to bring 
Before us many a vanished face 

From the dim, hoary, storied Past. 



MAKING THE DEACON. 

A mighty throng no tongue could tell, 
Who dared the rack, the fire, the sword, 

In conflict with the hosts of hell, 
Who bore the banner of the Lord, 
Bishop, and priest, and deacon came. 

With linen ephod purely white, 
And sable stole, meetly arrayed, 

They crowded to the solemn rite, 
And every bishop's hand was laid 
Upon that lowly bended head. 

Then down the countless army passed 
The words spoke on Judea's plain : 

" Go, o'er the world my gospel cast, 
Break Sin and Satan's prison chain, 
And I am with you to the end." 

Unto the end ! and through all time, 
The threefold cord hath never failed ; 

Though men repeated Uzzah's crime, 
And hand unconsecrate was laid 
At times upon the ark of God. 

Through rolling centuries were still 
Bishop, priest, deacon set aside, 

The Master's mission to fulfill, 

His faithful flock on earth to guide 
In pastures safe unto his rest. 

As on the bended head was laid 
The living bishop's hallowed hand, 



64 "A FRIENDS 

By Christ himself the priest was made 
To fill the consecrated band, 

And make the gracious promise good. 

Raise the high laud ; the words are said 

That for his life have set aside 
The deacon for his work, and spread 

Between him and the world a tide 
His feet may never guiltless pass. 

O thou, blest with such fearful gift, 

Trembling the awed heart prays for thee, 

Who 'twixt the quick and dead must lift 
Thy censer all thy life, nor be, 
Though weak and faint, e'er free to lay it down. 

Meet 'tis the prayer should ever rise, 
That He who brought thee thus so near 

Unto himself, would purge thine eyes 
To see thy way, and brace and cheer 
Thy spirit for its holy task. 



«A FRIEND." 

My thanks for the present that yesterday came, 

Like the first bloom of spring-time, its beauty to 
blend 

With the gloom of a sick-room, and lighten the pain 
With the blessed assurance of having "a friend." 



■A FRIEND." 



65 



In the gay paths of Pleasure, when life's light was young, 
I sported, nor thought its bright gala would end, 

Glad and happy the while every dulcet note sung 
On my ear seemed to fall from the lips of a friend. 

But clouds gathered o'er me, the blossoms lay dead, 
And for fragrance, sharp stings to my bosom did send ; 

In the throng dancing round me, with anguish and dread 
I found few were worthy the dear name of friend. 

That knowledge has taught my deceived foolish heart 
On that few its deep tenderness freely to spend, 

And its pulses with rapturous gladness to start 
In response to the call of a true, earnest friend. 

Oh, what were the world, with its trappings and gauds, 
Its idols to which so devoutly we bend, 

The tinsel and pomp of its glittering frauds, 

If amid them the heart were uncheered by a friend ? 

The skies might their glories still shed o'er the night, 
Enchantment the steps of the seasons attend, 

But the eye would rest on them unthrilled with delight, 
If it met not the answering glance of a friend. 

For let the sky lower, let fortune look stern, 

Let ingratitude, sorrow, and care the heart rend, 

Like sunshine the brightness and beauty return 
The instant the heart recognizes a friend. 

When on the last bed, whence the soul struggles up 
From the clay, with the Spirit eternal to blend, 



66 LENGTHENING SHADOWS. 

How unspeakably bitter to drain the dark cup 
Unsoothed by the tears and embrace of a friend ! 

When life's dreams are o'er, and alone we go hence, 
How dreadful that land unto which we must wend, 

In mystery shrouded, unfathomed by sense, 

If it were not the home of an Almighty Friend ! 

When we think of that land where spirits in bliss 
Their rapturous anthems in unison blend, 

How it lightens the burdens and sorrows of this, 
To know there at last friend again will meet friend ! 



LENGTHENING SHADOWS. 

Youth's cloudless sky was o'er me, 

Sweet blossoms filled my hands, 
As the white-winged moments bore me 

Over Pleasure's shifting sands ; 
The waves were softly singing 

On a placid summer sea, 
And the golden sunlight flinging 

Glory over grove and lea ; 
Bright, sparkling streamlets wooed me 

Still my pastime to prolong, 
And the forest warblers lured me 

With the siren voice of song ; 



LENGTHENING SHADOWS. 67 

Love with rosy wreaths adorned me, 

As I danced the hours away, 
Till the length' ning shadows warned me 

Of the swiftly closing day. 

Long and black they spread before me 

On the white and gleaming sands; 
Then a chilling fear crept o'er me 

'Neath my garlands' rosy bands, 
And I turned to face the sunlight, 

That the golden beams might throw 
The ghastly shadows out of sight, 

With their boding looks of woe, 
Dreaming thus to cheat the hours 

Of the surely waning day, 
And gather fresher flowers 

By the pleasure-haunted way : 
But, alas ! the buds had faded 

When the sun drank up the dew, 
And the spectral shapes o'ershaded 

All the bright scene to my view. 
Closer still behind me ever, 

Though I turned my eyes away, 
From my steps they would not sever 

Wheresoe'er my pathway lay. 
Though the fragrant breeze of evening 

Fanned my flushed and fevered cheek, 
Still my heart dark dreams was weaving, 

And its coolness did but speak 
To my frighted spirit, warning 

Of the gloomy shapes behind, 
Their clankless fetters forming 

My dancing steps to bind. 



68 LENGTHENING SHADOWS, 

Then a gentle whisper stayed me, 

As with shuddering heart I fled, 
And in loving accents bade me 

Turn and face the shadows dread. 
In affrighted anguish seeing 

All the lessons they would teach, 
My poor silly heart was fleeing 

From the wisdom in its reach : 
For the phantom shapes that lengthen 

On the evening path of life 
Are but angels sent to strengthen 

Spirits weakened in the strife, 
Or to point, with loving finger, 

To careless steps the way 
Where the Saviour's footsteps linger 

On the road to endless day. 

Now, a weary pilgrim, catching 
Glimpses of the cloudless land, 

I love the shadows stretching 
Out before me on the sand. 

Not the golden sunshine flinging 

Brightness over dewy bowers, 
Not the spicy odors springing 

From the many-tinted flowers, 
Not the breath of music, chanting 

Witching strains unto the ear, 
Not the rosy pleasures haunting 

Youth's morning hours, can cheer 
The soul that faith has strengthened 

To shake off its slothful dreams, 



THE WHITE STONE. 

Like the misty shadows lengthened 
By the sun's last setting beams; 

Tokens they which the true-hearted 
Send us from the "distant hills," 

Where each loved one hence departed 
Still an angel office fills. 



6 9 



THE WHITE STONE. 

The black stone of the Kaaba in Mecca is believed by the Arabs to 
have been brought milk-white by angels to Abraham, for a scaffolding 
in building ; and, being miraculously fixed in the finished temple, to 
have turned black from the kisses of generations of sinful worshipers. 

Darling, when a helpless baby, 

All unconscious of his love, 
God sent forth his Spirit holy, 

Bearing gifts all price above, 
And a tablet, fairer, purer 

Than the patriarch's of old, 
Placed within thy infant bosom, 

Safe the edifice to hold. 

Through the earth's wide fields of pleasure, 

With all perfumed blossoms strown, 
Come from every part the pilgrims, 

Seeking to caress the stone; 
Crowned with garlands bright and glowing, 

See them come with smiling eyes, 
While the angels, loving, hoping, 

Fearing watch thee from the skies. 
7 



7 o THE WHITE STONE. 

Keep the portal, darling, closely ; 

Pilgrims clothed in raiment white 
Oft will kiss with lips unholy, 

While they bend, that tablet bright : 
Then its spotless lustre, tarnished, 

Ever dimmer, darker grows, 
Till, all earth, its heavenly beauty 

Now no more it can. disclose. 



In the clime of love and glory, 

Where the angel watchers wait 
With the deathless wreaths to crown thee 

At the open pearly gate, 
Purity alone can enter ; 

And if thou its waters bright 
E'er wouldst taste, in prayer and patience 

Strive to keep the tablet white. 

Tears of sorrow, prayer unceasing, 

Now may wash its stains away, 
And the angel smiles will brighten 

Soon again its faded ray; 
But too often let the pilgrims 

From the earthy bowers press 
With their lips the sacred scaffold, 

Naught the wrong can e'er redress. 

By the pearly gate wait weeping 

Still the angel watchers fair; 
Bloom the wreaths immortal ever 

That thy brow shall never wear ; 



THE MOTHER TONGUE. 

Leap the living crystal streamlets 
To refresh the thirsting lip ; 

Lone, afar in darkness straying, 

Ne'er the life-draught thou shalt sip. 



7i 



THE MOTHER TONGUE. 

(Translated from the German.) 

Mother tongue, dear mother tongue, 
How blissfully thy tones are rung ! 

First sound my infant ear that greeted, 

Sweetest, first endearing word, 
First my lisping lip repeated, 
In my heart aye tinkling heard. 

Ah, how gloomy is my soul 
When stranger stars above me roll, 

When stranger sounds my tongue must move, 

Of stranger words I try the art, 
Which I can never learn to love, 
Which wake no echo in my heart ! 

Language beautiful and dear, 
Ah, thou tinklest out so clear ! 
I would deeper still explore 

All thy riches, all thy might, 
Which seems to summon up once more 
My fathers from the grave's deep night. 



72 



THE MINSTREL'S FATHERLAND. 

Tinkle, tinkle evermore, 
Speech of heroes, love's own lore; 
From the buried past uprise 

Long-forgotten song's soft flow; 
Live in page that never dies, 
Live that every heart may glow. 

In them all God's breath hath wrought, 
Holy all with human thought ; 
But would I thank God or pray, 

Make in words my heart's love known ;- 
Holiest thoughts my soul that sway, 
Speak I in my mother's tone. 



THE MINSTREL'S FATHERLAND. 

(Translated from the German.) 

Where is the minstrel's fatherland ? 

Where noble spirits radiance throw; 

Where garlands for the lovely blow; 

Where mighty hearts with rapture glow, 
Wielding for holy things the brand, — 
There is my fatherland. 

How's named the minstrel's fatherland? 

O'er her dead sons her heart is broke ; 

She weeps beneath the strange sword's stroke ; 

Once she was called the land of oak ; 
The free, free land, the German land, — 
That is my fatherland. 



THE MINSTREL'S FATHERLAND. 

Why weeps the minstrel's fatherland? 
Because a tyrant's stormy word 
Her trembling princes all have heard, 
Nor sacred oaths to break have feared, 

Nor heard cry out her patriot band ; — 
That weeps my fatherland. 

Whom calls the minstrel's fatherland? 
She calls upon the silent gods 
In thunder tones that shake her sods ; 
Upon her Freedom's scourging rods; 

On Retribution's vengeful hand ; — 
These calls my fatherland. 

What would the minstrel's fatherland? 
The slave to chase from her free air, 
The war-hound hunt back to his lair,' 
And free her own free sons to bear, 

Or, free, to bed them 'neath her sand; — 
That would my fatherland. 

And hopes the minstrel's fatherland ? 

She hopes in Right her cause to make ; 

Hopes that her true sons will awake ; 

Hopes God for her will vengeance take ; 
And knows from whom she makes demand ; — 
Thus hopes my fatherland. 



73 



74 



THE LOST CHURCH. 



THE LOST CHURCH. 

(Translated from the German.) 

Often is heard in the forest gray, 

High overhead, a hollow sound : 
Though whence it cometh none can say ; 

Nor can the legend true be found. 
Only 'tis said from a lost church 

The bell rings out upon the wind ; — 
Once thronged the people to its porch, 

Now none its hidden path can find. 

Far in the forest late I strayed, 

Where not a track could be discerned ; 
By the world's shallow wiles betrayed, 

To God my yearning soul was turned : 
As in the stillness I adored, 

I heard the peal ring out again ; 
The higher my soul's longing soared, 

The nearer, fuller, rang the strain. 

My spirit was so deeply stirred, 

Such rapture with the music blended, 

I knew not, as entranced I heard, 

How high my winged steps ascended. 



"THE LOST CHURCH. 



75 



It seemed more than a hundred years 
That I thus dreamingly had strayed, 

When opened o'er the mist's gray tears, 
Like sunlight clear, a pleasant glade. 

The sky shone there so darkly blue, 

The sun so bright, so warm and glowing ; 
And a proud minster, full in view, 

Beamed in the golden light o'erflowing. 
The fleecy cloudlets seemed like wings 

To heave it upward to the day ; 
The tower and spire, like dream-wrought things, 

In the bright heaven to soar away. 

The bell's enrapturing, blissful tone 

Resounded quivering in the tower ; 
Swung by no skill to mortals known, 

But by some higher, holier power, 
It seemed the selfsame power and stream 

That in my throbbing heart was beating. 
I entered 'neath the dome, a gleam 

Of joy and awe within me meeting. 

My visions in those walls I ne'er 

Can in the speech of man impart ; 
The windows glowing darkly clear 

With martyred saints in every part, 
I saw in wondrous guise illumined, 

And every form to life expand ; 
While far beyond a world uploomed 

Of saintly women a holy band. 



7 6 MAN. 

I knelt before the altar low, 

With love and adoration bowed : 
Upon the ceiling's arching bow 

The heavens were painted, star and cloud. 
Then, as I looked, I saw on high 

Wide cleft the lofty vaulted screen, 
And heaven's bright doors wide open fly, 

With not a veil to intervene. 

What glorious things I raptured saw, 

Still with adoring worship bowed, 
What blessed music heard with awe, 

Than organ more, or trombone sound, 
The speech of man could image ne'er ! 

But who to know it truly yearneth, 
Let him unto that bell give ear 

Whose chime he in the wood discerneth. 



MAN. ^ 

(Translated from the German.) 

Thrust out in the world, forsaken, 
Man first takes his painful part : 

Wind and tempest roar above him, 
Naught congenial finds his heart. 

Every star, and every flower, 
Loving call from sky and dust, 

Look not to some distant power, 
Thou art ours, in us thy trust. 



MAN. 

Then he takes, with earnest yearning, 
Earth and heaven unto his heart, 

Love's soft tears allay the burning 
Of his nameless, longing smart. 

The north wind on the meadows bursting, 

Every blossom finds a grave ; 
In the ground he planteth trusting 

Firm his staff, the storm to brave ; 

And, in fond reliance leaning, 
To the skies looks hopeful out, 

Tender blossoms softly gleaming 

From the withered wood forth sprout. 

On the plains his friends have left him, 

'Mid the dangers of the way, 
Of every solace Time hath reft him, 

Snows of age upon him weigh. 

Then again he seeks the roof-tree 
Where his infant cradle^rocked ; 

Strange the spot his tearful eyes see, 
No fond hand in his is locked. 

Now in faith he gazes ever 

In the deep blue heaven's dome, 

Sighing, " Youth is gone forever; 
Pilgrim steps are almost home. 

"Much hath been of Time the prey, 

But there still remains to me 
One who is my trust and stay, 

One whom all the stars can see. 



77 



78 TIME'S LESSON. 

"Love and faith, in hope unbroken, 
Deep in darkness light will wake ; 

I shall see the heavens open 

When my heart in death shall break/ ' 



TIME'S LESSON. 

I am not very old ; 
But Youth's fresh tide no longer warms my veins, 
And though the heart resists Time's icy chains, 

The links the flesh enfold. 

Yet I can welcome age, 
Retrace my* youth by many a backward look 
O'er dreams writ down in Memory's book, 

Nor weep to turn the page. 

Time's purifying art 
Has brought with each dark grief and sun-bright joy, 
A spirit purged from much of earth's alloy, 

Unto my chastened heart. 

When the day's heat is done, 
And Nature robes herself for night and sleep, 
How softly glow the mellow tints that creep 

Up from the vanished sun ! 

And thus should human life, 
As the dim twilight of old age comes on, 
Garments of milder, purer texture don, 

Than fitted youthful strife. 



TIME'S LESSON. 



79 



Right willingly do I 
My soul in sober vestments now array, 
Quit the bright sunshine of youth's festal day, 

With scarce a tear or sigh. 

For when the beaded foam 
Mantled most high and sparkling, I drank up 
The honeyed draught that blushed within the cup 

At Pleasure's harvest-home. 

But now to younger hands 
The chalice I resign ; for on the brim 
The rosy sparkle of the froth is dim, — 

My lip new draughts demands. 

Life's golden chain grows bright 
The while it draws its length' ning links along, 
The stains that to its earthy ore belong 

Lost in immortal light. 

I'm nearer now to heaven ; 
And through its portals floods of glory roll 
From God's benignant face upon my soul, 

As earthly ties are riven. 

His tender, fostering love 
Has led me through life's stormy pilgrimage ; 
And when my faint heart fears the tempest's rage, 

Whispers 'tis calm above. 

There in eternal youth 
Immortal spirits drink of life's pure stream, 
And find their homes 'neath the unfading beam 

Of God's pure love and truth. 



8o JAMES ROSE. 



JAMES ROSE, 

SENIOR WARDEN OF CALVARY CHURCH, MEMPHIS. 
Died April 2, 1855. 

The mournful funeral bell hath beat the air 

For hours ; and o'er the busy city, where 

The rushing tide of Mammon's greed late boiled, 

And seethed, and roared, lies an unwonted gloom 

And stillness. From the crowded office desk 

A silver head, that, like a crown of glory, 

Shone above a meek and holy face, 

Has gone, and Justice ceases from her work 

And weeps beside her scales. But yesternight 

Thou mightest have seen him kneeling in the temple, 

Surrounded by his loved ones, the peace of God 

Upon his chastened, noble brow, and all 

The dignity of perfect manhood 

In its best estate clothing him as a mantle. 

Next morn, with life and hope coursing his veins, 

Warming his heart, and radiating 

From his eye, forth in the vernal sunshine 

Went he to his work. But even then 

The summons came, " The Master calleth thee ;" 

And ere the friend who journeyed at his side 

Could recognize the tone, the gentle spirit, 

Leaping to obey the call of Him 

It long had loved and served, was in the presence 



JAMES ROSE. Si 

Of Jehovah. 'Twas meet that such a life 

Should finish thus ; that he who lived on earth, 

Passed through its cares, its toils, and its defilements, 

With his white robes unspotted ever, 

Should pass away, e'en as the stars that fade 

At the sun-rising. You'll miss him from his hearth, 

Whose light went out with him whose presence there 

Was ever like sweet music to the soul, — 

So guileless, pure, and loving. They'll miss him 

In the bustling haunts of business ; 

And worldly men will pause and look around, 

And long with an unwonted tenderness 

For the calm, saintly countenance that blessed them 

Though they knew or recked it not. But most of all 

We'll miss him in the house of prayer. And yet, 

Methinks, the viewless spirit ever there 

Will love to come, and join us in our songs 

Of praise, and mingle in the dear old prayers. 

And with it, too, will come a tender one, 

That with sweet songs of rapture welcomed him 

To rest in Paradise ; and hand in hand, 

Just as they passed through life, they'll be among us, 

And about us. The grave is rich indeed 

When in its deep, cold bosom it enfoldeth, 

Shrined for heaven, the sacred clay that wrapped 

The blameless spirits of God's blessed saints. 



82 GRANDMOTHER'S PET. 



GRANDMOTHER'S PET. 

' Neath the shade of gnarled oaks olden, 
Spreading o'er the grassy lawn, 

Like a ray of sunlight golden, 
Like some playful forest fawn, 

Gambols, till the sun has set, 

Bright-eyed Lytt, grandmother's pet. 

While the summer sun is smiling 

Through the long day's merry round, 

Comes his laugh, my care beguiling 
With its gleeful silver sound, 

As if fairy sprites had met 

To frolic with my darling pet. 

Sweeter sound on earth was never 
Surely heard than from his tongue, 

Ripples out in music ever 

With each word at random flung. 

In its witchery I forget 

All but pleasure in my pet. 

When the storm-cloud wraps the bowers, 
Comes he creeping to my knee, 

With the gloom that outside lowers 
Shrouding all his dark eye's glee, 

Minding me of unpaid debt, 

Story promised to my pet. 



GRANDMOTHER'S PET. g$ 

Then I trace a bright resemblance 

In his wistful, earnest look, 
Waking up a sad remembrance 

Scarce my aching heart can brook ; 
For my soul its lost hath met 
In the soft eyes of my pet. 

Memories that never slumber 

Drape the silken head with gloom, 

Phantom joys in countless number 
Hide the fair cheeks' downy bloom, 

While the falling tear-drops wet 

The perfect features of my pet. 

Quickly then the mist is lifted 

Hiding the bright home of bliss 
Unto which my treasures drifted, 

Leaving me to mourn in this ; 
And I see them smile that yet 
God hath spared to me my pet. 

Sinless one, the world will woo thee 

To its tempting, cold embrace, 
Many a flowery path will lure thee 

Into Pleasure's maddened race, 
And many a secret snare be set 
For thy heedless steps, my pet. 

Thou must go ; I would not hold thee, — 

Strength is gathered in the race; 
But my prayers will still enfold thee 

With love's deathless, fond embrace ; 



84 MY MUSE. 

God his guardian hosts will set 
Round thy love-watched way, my pet. 

The above was written at the request of an old friend, now "gone 
before," to express her fondness for a grandson, sole relic of a lost son. 



MY MUSE. 



My muse is a merry-hearted sprite, 

She wreathes her shell with laughing flowers, 

She bathes her wing in the amber light 

That gilds the earth in the young spring hours. 

Her Castaly fount is a sparkling rill, 

That flashes the sunlight from crystal waves ; 

The shadows from Helicon's haunted hill 
Cannot sadden a note of her simple staves. 

The wailings of grief or wan despair 

Enkindle no spark of her song's rapt fire; 

A voice of woe or a thought of care 

Will silence the strings of her tuneful lyre. 

Her lay is a loving, cheerful chant 
Of joys in the holy light of home, 

Whose halls" no spectral passions haunt 
To chase away life's fresh, sweet bloom. 



FLOY. 85 

She loves the moonlight, stars, and flowers ; 

She gambols with fairy-folk by night ; 
She joys to see the dancing showers 

That paint on the clouds the rainbow's light. 

She carols with all of the forest birds ; 

She mimics the winds in their airy flight ; 
And the music of homely household words 

Awakens her heart to keen delight. 

She never can harbor a thought of death 
But as it is linked with life in heaven ; 

She lightly draws her grateful breath 

With a blessing to Him by whom 'tis given. 



FLOY. 



Dancing in the mellow light, 
Playing o'er the cottage floor, 

Darting quickly out of sight, 

Peeping through my chamber door, , 

Winsome, gladsome, freakish, coy, 

Gambols happy little Floy. 

Changeful as an April day, 

Prankish as an elfin sprite, 
Smiling now as rosy May, 

Pensive now as summer night, 
Now an angel, now a toy, 
Seems this fitful little Floy. 
8* 



86 FLOY. 

On the cushion at my side 
See her seated now demure, 

In her eyes' deep glances hide 
Fancies wild, affections pure. 

Dreaming with such thoughtful joy, 

Can this sober puss be Floy ? 

Busy with her little task, 

Conning soft her lessons o'er, 

'Neath the placid features bask 
Priceless gems of infant lore. 

Playmates now in vain decoy 

Earnest, eager, patient Floy. 

Kneeling meekly by her bed, 
Robed in raiment snowy fair, 

Bending down her graceful head, 
Murmuring her infant prayer, — 

I pray that doubt may ne'er destroy 

The simple, childish faith of Floy. 

Guardian angels flitting round 
Watch her sure with loving eyes ; 

Joyous anthems they shall sound 
In the mansions of the skies, 

When in their eternal joy 

Thou shalt sing with seraphs, Floy. 



MARY WEST SMITH. 87 



MARY WEST SMITH. 

Died, 1853. 

A spirit gentle, glad, and bright 

Dwells in my thought to-day, — 
A maid who 'mid the summer light 

Breathed her pure soul away ; 
Who from her flowery Southern home, 

One fervid sunny June, 
Went out o'er Northern hills to roam, 

Warbling life's joyous tune, 
But, tired amid her sportive play, 

Lay down awhile to rest, 
And wakened to renew the lay 

In gardens of the blest. . 

A sparkling, singing woodland brook 

Gladdened my youthful eyes, 
Whose crystal wave from sunset took 

The cloud-land's glorious dyes ; 
'Twas thus her soul caught from the skies 

Its lovingness and truth, 
Her graceful form, her gentle eyes, 

The charms of her bright youth. 

Like lucent dew-drop in the bell 
Of odor-breathing flower, 



TO IANTHE. 

Drawn by sunbeam from its cell 

To glisten in the shower, 
Her radiant spirit left the earth 

In its fresh matin light, 
And sought the heaven of its birth 

With anthems of delight. 

Like some fair lily to the dawn 

That opes its fragrant breast, 
She waked to happy life each morn, 

The blessing and the blessed. 
Like birdling in the woodland grove 

Her voice was blithe and sweet ; 
Her life was one glad heaven of love, 

Death came but to complete. 



TO IANTHE. 



Young womanhood's soft blush, 
Like a bright sunset cloud, sheds beauty o'er thee, 
And life, like a sweet dream, over thy heart doth gush 

In living melody. 

Thy shining, silken hair 
Is braided o'er a brow whereon young Love 
Has waved his wing, and wakened visions fair 

As the blue heaven above. 



TO IANTHE. 89 

But thou dost seem to me 
Ever a fairy child, with curls of paly gold, 
And laughing eyes, and dancing steps as free 

As the wood-nymphs of old. 

I would that thou mightst be 
Ever, among earth's toiling, grasping herd, 
Trusting and pure as infancy, from care as free 

As a gay forest bird. 

The light-fingered breeze 
That from all flowers steals their perfumed breath, 
And sheds it o'er the earth and desert seas, 

Is like a firm, true faith. 

From all the ills of life 
It draws the fragrance of some gracious good, 
With which the darkest providence is rife, 

And makes it heavenly food. 

And though life has its snares, 
A pure and simple trust in God and man will be 
A shield whose adamantine strength outwears 

All man's philosophy. 

God give thee this sure shield, 
A gentle, childlike faith, and ever hold thee fast 
In ways of truth, and over life's dark field- 

Bring thee to Him at last. 



9 o BE SURE YOU'RE RIGHT, AND GO AHEAD. 



"BE SURE YOU'RE RIGHT, AND GO 
AHEAD." 

Be sure you're right, and go ahead, 

Nor stay with men your course to steer ; 

Pray God your steps be safely led, 
Do right, and leave the rest to Him. 

His holy word's a steadfast guide, 

That none astray has ever led ; 
Look but to it, crush down your pride, 

Be sure you're right, and go ahead. 

Let the world frown, or sneer, or rage, 
Let angry clouds your sky o'erspread, 

Still, while your war of life you wage, 
Be sure you're right, and go ahead. 

Faint heart hath never won a prize ; 

Fortune demands a fearless tread ; 
Would you to fame or fortune rise, 

Be sure you're right, and go ahead. 

Would you achieve aught good or great, 
Go straight ahead with all your might, 

For man's consent or cheer ne'er wait, 
But first be very sure you're right. 



THE RAINY EVENING. 



91 



THE RAINY EVENING. 

The day sets dark and stormy, 

The rain is falling fast, 
On the slated roof it patters 

To the howling of the blast. 
Black, murky clouds o'ershadow 

All the brightness of the sky, 
And its dreary^ inky shadow 

Lies heavy on my eye. 
My heart grows sad and weary } 

Life seems all a rainy night, 
Where not a star or planet 

Gives a cheering ray of light. 

Let me lean, love, on thy bosom, 

Fold me closely to thy heart, 
That the music of its pulses 

May some life to mine impart. 
Let thy lips upon my eyelids 

Rest in kisses fond and warm, 
And the old fond, loving whispers 

The gloomy cloud transform 
Into a shining rainbow, 

Whose hues of rosy light 
From thy love reflects the glory 

That makes my darkness bright. 



THE RAINY EVENING. 

Stroke with gentle hand my tresses, 

And tell me o'er and o'er 
That you love me fondly, truly, 

Though I've heard it all before : 
For my heart is like a miser, 

Who loves to count his gold, 
Though he knows each yellow eagle 

His money-bags can hold ; 
And though I feel the brightness 

Of thy love each fleeting hour, 
I love to count the treasure 

That makes my proudest dower. 

Tell me oft, with tender accents, 

For my timid, doubting heart 
Would have the fond assurance 

Thy loving words impart : 
As when some bright-eyed maiden, 

Gazing in a crystal brook, 
Beholds her face reflected, 

And still returns to look, 
If perchance the charming vision 

She late saw pictured there 
Be indeed, as she had fancied, 

So beautiful and fair. 

Hold my hand with fervent pressure, 
Let me gaze into thine eyes, 

Though ten thousand blissful moments 
I have read what in them lies ; 

But of old the wise Chaldean, 

Though he knew each smallest star, 



MARY. 

Still spent the night in tracing 
Out their course in space afar : 

For to him each little twinkler 
Yielded new light every hour, — 

So in thy earnest glances 

I would read love's varied power. 

Do I love thee, dearest? Question 

If the bee doth love the flower 
Whence it draws its honeyed treasure 

Through the golden summer hour ; 
If the blossom loves the sunshine 

That warms it into life ; 
The earth the cooling showers 

With life-giving freshness rife ; 
But not my deep devotion 

To the worship of my youth, 
To my heart's impersonation 

Of all nobleness and truth. 



93 



MARY. 



I love my simple, holy name, — 

My mother gave it me ; 
'Tis linked with all things dear that claim 

Place in my memory. 

My father, — though he early died, 
In dreams I oft have heard 



94 



MARY. 

Him call me by it to his side, 
Linked with some tender word. 

My sister syllabled its sound 

With every loving tone, 
When round my neck her arms she wound 

In childhood's happy home. 

'Twas whispered in my maiden ear 

When my lover came to woo, 
In honeyed accents far more dear 

Than earth could else bestow. 

Coupled with every epithet 
That hallowed love can frame, 

Its music thrills my heart-strings yet 
When my husband calls my name. 

And in our new, our wedded home 

We gave its rhythm sweet 
To a little bud whose tender bloom 

Faded from earth too fleet. 

Within my flowery village home, 

Girt by the blue hills' shade, 
Methinks I with my playmates roam 

Along the sunny glade. 

Again I tread the leafy aisles 

Of my youthful forest haunts, 
Or climb the gray rocks' rugged piles, 

Where the yellow rock-rose flaunts ; 



MARY. 

And as the south wind softly blows 

O'er violet beds around, 
My spirit with the fragrance glows 

That scents the mossy ground. 

The cowslip by the mountain brook 

Bends her lithe azure bell ; 
The fern-leaves deck each rocky nook, 

The wind-flower every dell. 

Again I taste the limpid wave 

Of the "cold spring" 'neath the rock, 
And, stooping, my hot brow to lave, 

Start at. the icy shock. 

I see once more the mountain's crest, 

With fleecy clouds below, 
The valley's variegated breast 

Bathed in the noontide glow. 

These throng around me with that name, 

Like phantom shapes of eld, 
Visions of beauty ne'er again 

But in dream-life beheld. 

To poesy alike 'tis dear: 

Embalmed by Burns in verse, 

It bids the sympathetic tear 
From million eyes to gush. 

The sacred name of her who, blessed 
All womankind above, 



95 



9 6 THE FIRST GRA Y HAIRS. 

The Saviour of mankind caressed 
With the deep mother-love. 

In vine-clad vales in classic lands 

Its music-tone is rung, 
Where in proud fanes by pious bands 

The vesper hymn is sung. 

And so I ever loved the name, 
And gave its cadence sweet 

Unto a little babe that came 
My mother-love to meet. 

And in the bowers of Paradise, 
Where the saints in waiting rest, 

By it, in bliss that never dies, 
My baby is caressed. 



THE FIRST GRAY HAIRS. 

The matron is dressing, and stands at her glass, 

O'er which a swift vision of memories pass, 

A pale, dim and shadowy, ghostlike train 

She thought not her eye should e'er rest on again. 

Her brow is unfurrowed, her cheek still as fair, 

And the locks of her soft, wavy, golden-brown hair 

Are falling as thick in their clustering curl 

As they waved o'er the neck of the gay, happy girl. 



THE FIRST GRAY HAIRS. 97 

But there, 'mid the curling, rippling mass, 
She has seen in the face of the tell-tale glass 
Some silvery plumes which old Time has dropped 
From his hoary wing, and the comb has stopped ; 
And lo ! as in musing mood silent she stands, 
The years have rolled backward their shining sands, 
And though loud in the nursery shout her boys, 
The mother is living her childhood's joys. 

In a pretty green yard, 'neath the oak-branches' shade, 
Plays with sister and brothers a pale little maid ; 
They sing and they flit about blithe as the birds, 
And prattle together with sweet childish words ; 
The violets perfume the grass all around, 
The box-vine's blue blossoms twine over the mound; 
The ring-doves coo soft in the cage by the fence, 
With a tone that seems still ever present to sense. 

Her sister's white neck, auburn hair, and black eye, 
And her mother's brown curls, float dreamily by; 
Her father's pale face as in sickness he lay 
In his cot on the porch to witness their play ; ' 
Her young brother's cap, with its red-and-white plume, 
His march to his drum-beat through all the hot noon ; 
And the patriarch fig-tree, its arms spreading wide 
With its treasures of fruit in the bright summer tide. 

Now a schoolgirl is treading a green lane at even, 
And alone in the gloaming bright fancies is weaving, — 
Sweet visions as gorgeous as cloud-land bedight 
In the splendor of sunset's swift changes of light. 

9* 



9 8 THE FIRST GRA Y HAIRS. 

Her teacher's fair forehead, and pale azure eye, 
And wondrous white hand, she sees with a sigh ; 
For the grave won them all from her sight long ago, 
And earth the pure presence shall never more know. 

Then, clothed in rich garment of satin sheen white, 
A maiden is decked for the ball-room at night ; 
The music and dance whirl rapidly by, 
While she blushes and thrills 'neath her lover's fond 

eye; 
The long sweeping ringlets are golden in hue, 
The rosebuds among them are bright with the dew ; 
The warm gushing tide of young life in her veins 
The quick-smiling lip with its ruby distains. 

A marred furrowed brow, and a sparkling dark eye, 
Where a pure heart and intellect proud seem to vie 
With a tenderness rare as its rich, holy truth, 
Reveal to her sight the best friend of her youth. 
A sad-hearted maiden walks pale by his side, 
And comforting words from his lips again glide : 
Then afar by strange hands in a stranger grave laid, 
The wise head, tender heart its last pillow has made. 

Still swift o'er the glass doth the wizard train sweep, 
When a sweet voice says, "Mother dear, why do you 

weep?'' 
'Tis gone, and the mirror hangs vacantly there, 
Reflecting alone the still uncombed brown hair, 
With its few lines of silver ; and quickly around 
She glances, as one just awaked by the sound, 
Where her daughter stands by with a wondering eye, 
And the lady her toilet completes with a sigh. 



A PICTURE. 



99 



A PICTURE. 

I'll make of my pen a pencil, 

Nor dip it in fancy dyes, 
To paint you the dainty picture 

That daily gladdens my eyes, 
'Tis a home beneath rustling trees, 

Where the glow of the sunshine lies, 
Where my children play free as the breeze 

Or the birdling that over them flies. 

They are four, and their shout is ringing 

In music along the grove, 
In a romp with the dog and kitten 

They every one tenderly love. 
Their cheeks like the rose-petals shine, 

Their eyes are of heavenly blue, 
And their locks like the twining vine 

In the sun catch a golden hue. 

The first boy's pet name is Willy, 

Whose face is so wondrous fair, 
So gentle, so winningly lovely, ■ 

'Tis a vision of beauty rare. 
But his limbs are strong and manly, 

A fearless, bold boy is he, 
Bestriding the little black pony, 

As brave as a knight should be. 



ioo A PICTURE. 

Next Percy, whose chestnut ringlets 

Fall over a massive brow, 
Has an eye whose chastened lustre 

Shows a thoughtful spirit e'en now. 
He's a frank, gentle, silent boy, 

Loving books ever more than plays ; 
And for him I weave in the future 

A garland of Fame's green bays. 

Then the darling and pet is Neddy, 

A mischievous, frolicsome elf, 
The life of my heart with his gambols 

And passionate love of myself. 
He wakes in the morning singing, 

And he laughs and sings by turns, 
Till laughing he sinks to slumber 

While the west with the sun-glow burns. 

But sweetest of all is my daughter, 

The first-born treasure of love, 
With curls round a brown cheek twining, 

And the mien of a gentle dove, 
Whose soft, liquid eye revealeth 

A spirit as tender as pure, 
On which, in deep fondness reposing, 

We rest in its truth quite secure. 

There's a glory about the dwelling 
Where blessings like these are found, 

Such a richness of wealth that the spirit 
The depth of its bliss cannot sound ; 



PERCY. IO i 

But a tremulous fear cometh often 

Surging up from the love's blissful deep, 

Lest my teaching not safely may lead them 
To the fold where the ransomed sleep. 



PERCY. 



Thou hast gathered, O Father, a blossom 

In my garland transcendently bright ; 
From the sweetest hopes earth ever cherished 

In my bosom has faded the light ; 
But e'en in my anguish I thank Thee, 

While my wrung heart in agony weeps ; 
Gathered safe, in his radiant beauty, 

In the "rest that remaineth" he sleeps. 

Gathered safe by the life-giving river 

That waters the home of the blest, 
On his fair blooming, curl-shadowed forehead 

The wreath of immortals is pressed; 
No touch of defilement shall ever 

The spotless white garments distain, 
In the breast of the Saviour he never 

Shall know of earth's dangers again. 

Gathered safe ! now the fullness of knowledge 

Enriches the spirit I trained ; 
Far beyond what my dim vision fathomed, 

His eye the full light has attained \ 



102 EIGHTEEN TO-DAY. 

And the feet which my tenderness guarded 

So jealous from danger and pain, 
From the pathway of saints and of angels 

Now never can wander again. 

Gathered safe ! cease thy moaning, grieved spirit, 

Nor pour for the blessed thy tears ; 
Cease thy wailing, my wild, yearning anguish, 

Call not on the ear that now hears 
But the anthems of rapture unceasing 

Which from the redeemed ever roll, 
Lest the earth-stain of sorrow should darken 

The bliss of a glorified soul. 



EIGHTEEN TO-DAY. 

'Tis with a gush of saddened thought 

I feel my little girl has gone, 
And in her place old Time has brought, 

Albeit a very comely form, 
On which young womanhood's fair bloom 

Glows softly as a summer cloud, 
Another, sporting on the tomb 

Of her sweet childhood, gay and proud, 
Proud in thy eighteen years ; and I 

Am sad to think that ne'er again 
Thy guileless, careless years gone by, 

With childhood's happy sun and rain, 



FAREWELL, SWEET HOME, 103 

Can blossom for thee, but, instead, 

The fields of earnest Duty wide 
Before thy woman's feet lie spread, 

Where skill and strength will both be tried. 

I know not if 'twere vain to choose 

Thy portion on that harvest-field, 
What I should take, or what refuse, 

The greatest good to thee to yield. 
Though blind and weak, I know too well 

The fairest flowers have oft a thorn, 
The sweetest draughts on earth that well 

Pall on the lip ere joy is born. 
I only pray, whate'er betide, 

Upon the fields to harvest white, 
Duty may be thy constant guide, — 

Thy only aim, to do the Right. 



FAREWELL, SWEET HOME. 

Sweet rural home, farewell ! 
Now in my bosom swell 
Pangs reason cannot quell ; 

Regrets for vanished hours 
Passed in your sylvan bowers 
Amid your cherished flowers ; 



104 



/ CANNOT SING. 

Love for the birds that sing, 
Flitting on joyous wing 
In the soft light of Spring ; 

Love for the noble trees 

Through which the Autumn breeze 

Sighs like my soul's unease; 

Love for the golden ray 
Of the glorious sun by day 
With grass and flowers at play ; 

For the bees whose busy hum 
In the maple's early bloom 
Told me the Spring had come. 

'Twas so sweet to worship God 
At morn on the dewy sod 
Where his footsteps nightly trod. 



I CANNOT SING. 

I cannot sing, I cannot sing ; 

Discordant numbers round me float \ 
The Muse now sadly trails her wing, 

The lyre gives not one tuneful note. 

I cannot sing \ the city's walls 

Stifle each warm and kindling thought, 



/ CANNOT SING. 

And on my spirit from them falls 
A spell with boding sadness fraught. 

I miss the gorgeous Autumn flowers, 
That wooed me late with spicy breath, 

And made so bright the mournful hours 
That followed the sweet Summer's death. 

I miss the noble oak-tree's shade, 
The shadows dancing on the grass, 

The happy birds that trusting made 

Their homes where all the tempests pass. 

The sun has lost the golden beams 
It over groves and fields could fling ; 

All dim and cold its radiance seems, 
And in the town I cannot sing. 

The wild bird 'mong the leafy trees 
With music makes the welkin ring, 

But, caged a wanton ear to please, 

Pines for the woods and droops its wing. 

E'en so my Muse, like prisoned bird, 
Flutters and pants to try its wing, 

Pines for the woodnotes lately heard, 
And faintly sighs, but cannot sing. 

In dreams I hear the gush of streams 
In the green forest murmuring ; 

On my sealed eye the bright wave gleams, 
And in my slumbers I can sing. 



105 



lo6 / MOURN THEE, MY DARLING, 

The soft turf yields beneath my feet, 
Which to its freshness seem to cling; 

Bright things my sleeping senses greet, 
And blest in dreams I gayly sing. 

O'er the bright flowers God's pure stars shine, 
Breezes their tribute to me bring, 

Earth seems with beauty quite divine, 
And nearer heaven, and I can sing. 



I MOURN THEE, MY DARLING. 

I mourn thee, my darling : my heart ever cries 
From its anguish to thee in the blest Paradise, 
And yearns on thy beauty one moment to gaze, 
With a passionate longing no time can assuage. 

I mourn thee, my darling : thy sweet, happy tone 
In my grief-laden bosom now dwelleth alone, 
And ever I sorrow, by day and by night, 
To listen once more to its song of delight. 

I mourn thee, my darling : thy genius-lit eye 

Now kindles with glory that never can die ; 

But mine aches with longing its glance to behold, 

While the hot tears flow madly in floods uncontrolled. 

I mourn thee, my darling : thy step on the stair, 
Thy studious face by the lamp in thy chair, 
Are present forever, though from my sad hearth 
Seem reft all the beauty and glory of earth. 



/ MOURN THEE, MY DARLING. io j 

I mourn thee, my darling : I miss the caress 
Of the loving red lip I was wont so to press ; 
And bereavement's black shadow my spirit enfolds, 
For the deep tomb its sweetness and witchery holds. 

I mourn thee, my darling : I deemed that thy hand 
Would close my dead eyes when I sought the blest land ; 
But the thought of thy welcome beside its pure streams 
Will wing my glad flight from earth's dark fever-dreams. 

I mourn thee, my darling : through life never more 
Can aught to my spirit its lost hopes restore ; 
And sad through earth's blossoms and sunshine I stray, 
With the cloud on my heart from thine eye's faded ray. 

I mourn thee, my darling : I know thou art blest, 
As my love could not bless, in thy heavenly rest ; 
But my poor heart's fond yearnings refuse to be stilled, 
Though its prayer God so soon in his love hath fulfilled. 

I mourn thee, my darling : I sigh for the time 
When, amid the fair scenes of Aiden's pure clime, 
My arms shall enfold thee, when earth's cares are done, 
Who, so soon from earth gathered, the life-crown hast 
won. 

I mourn thee, my darling : yet far rather all 
The heart-rending pictures grief paints on thy pall, 
Than not to have had thee, have called thee my own, 
Sunned my soul in the glory thou'st over it thrown. 



108 CHARLEY. 

I mourn thee, my darling : thank God He has kept 
For his people the blessing of tears, — " Jesus wept :' 
How else could we live in this world when thus left, 
Of life's sweetest treasure, its best hopes bereft? 



CHARLEY. 



With wild hearts wellnigh breaking, 

That scarce God's help could crave, 
We closed the still-fringed eyelids, 

And robed thee for the grave, 
Then stood and gazed upon thee, — 

Thy stalwart, manly grace, 
That mocked the dreadful shadow 

Upon thy darkened face : 
And then there came before us 

A vision, oh \ so sweet ! 
With plume-decked baby forehead, 

And tiny marching feet, 
And accents sweet as music 

In this world ever heard, 
Mingled with childish laughter 

In many a lisping word ; 
And we could only see thee 

As our baby pet and toy, 
The youngest, brightest treasure, 

The household light and joy. 
Then we saw thy schoolboy triumph 

In the tasks so quickly learned ; 



CHARLE Y. 

Thy teacher's approbation 

So often proudly earned ; 
Felt once more the expectations 

From the many gifts so rare, 
Of a future bright with honors 

Which thy brow should surely wear ; 
And tears fell free as rain-drops 

Upon the summer flowers, 
O'er the fruit so early rifled 

From Affection's garden-bowers. 
We have brought them to the altar 

Of our crushed hearts' broken pride, 
And laid our brows in ashes 

Before the Crucified, 
And, shuddering, shrinking from it, 

From the blessed Master's hand 
Have drained the bitter chalice 

Our unbeliefs demand. 

Rest thee lightly, Charley, rest thee 

In thy prayer-blest greenwood tomb, 
With the blue-eyed blossoms o'er thee 

Of our happy childhood home ; 
And if where thou art lying 

We water them with tears, 
They'll bloom the brighter o'er thee 

Through the darkened future years, 
Till we shall lie beside thee, 

And the broken household band 
Be knit once more together 

By Death's sure smiting hand. 



109 



no A FAITHFUL FRIEND. 



A FAITHFUL FRIEND IS THE MEDI- 
CINE OF LIFE. 

(Ecclesiasticus, vi. 16.) 
TO MRS. E. S. WOODS. 

Dear faithful friend, these many years 

We've trod life's mazes side by side, 
Its happy sunshine and its tears 

Our mutual confidence have tried ; 
And still amid its varied scenes, 

With joy or deepest anguish rife, 
Thy gentle eye upon me beams, 

The sweetest medicine of life. 

I've stood beside thee in the storm, 

When life's best hopes seemed all a wreck, 
And seen thy faith, pure, strong, and warm, 

The cloud with shining rainbows deck : 
Thy gentle spirit then I saw 

Brave as a knight in mortal strife, 
When tempted, to thyself a law, 

Thy own best medicine of life. 

And when on my own sheltered bower 

The tempest poured its fury out, 
In sorrow's dreariest, darkest hour, 

Thy love my crushed heart twined about 



TO MY MO THER. T Y x 

Such radiant flowers of faith and trust, 
That. 'mid its wildest madd'ning strife 

All fierce revolting murmurs hushed, 
Thou saving medicine of life. 

Upon thy faded, placid brow, 

Nor in thy calm, pure, earnest eye, 
Do strangers seek for beauty now, 

As when youth's bright cup mantled high ; 
But thou art beautiful to me, 

For, with all healing balsam rife, 
Each tender trusting trait I see 

Becomes the medicine of life ; 

Becomes a healing draught to cure 

My wounded and deceived heart, 
And brace with strength still to endure 

The false world's every festering dart; 
Teaches that still upon the earth 

Brave self-denying love has part, 
And, teaching trust in man, is worth 

All other medicine of life. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

I am sitting in my chamber ; 

The fire is burning clear, 
And the murmur of the blazes 

Makes music to my ear. 



112 TO MY MOTHER. 

'Tis the blessed Sabbath morning; 

And eddying to and fro. 
The winter wind is driving 

The silvery flakes of snow. 

But the care of one that's ailing 
Binds me to the hearth to-day, 

While my neighbors all are thronging 
To the holy place to pray. 

As I list the fitful breathing 

Of the restless tongues of flame, 

They seem ghostly voices, mother, 
Whispering to my ear thy name. 

And in the changing shadows 
O'er the ruddy, glowing hearth, 

I seem to see thy features 

Clothed in beauty not of earth. 

And I hear the tender cadence 
Of thy singing voice the while, 

The nursery ballads chanting 
That did erst my ear beguile. 

I see thy soft brown ringlets 

Curling round thy fair, soft cheek, 

And I hear the merry laughter 
In which thy heart would speak, 

When the shadow had not fallen 
That in the after-years 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Spread its gloom above our dwelling 
And quenched thy sport in tears. 

I seem to scent the blossoms 
Of the honeysuckle-vine, 

Whose branches o'er our cottage 
Like loving arms did twine. 

I hear the ring-doves cooing, 
That shared thy constant care, 

With me, my bright young brothers, 
And my sister, oh, so fair ! 

Through the silent lonely chamber 
Seems to ring the sound of mirth 

With which one summer morning 
We told the white dove's birth. 

In my eyes the tear-drops gather, 
As my yearning heart reviews 

The scenes in distance shining 
Over which I love to muse. 

Life's cares are strewn about me, 

Oft heavily they press ; 
But a gracious eye is o'er me, 

Omnipotent to bless ; 

And whensoe'er the burden 
Grows heavy on my heart, 

Its glance has had the power 
New vigor to impart. 



"3 



ii4 



TO MY MOTHER. 

My mother, thou didst bless me 
When I left my lovely home, 

Along the unknown future 

With an untried love to roam; 

And in my saddest moments, 

My darkest trial time, 
It was strength and solace to me 

That thy blessing thus was mine. 

Thou lingerest on life's pathway, 
With the shadow on thy heart, 

And longest for the summons 
That shall call thee to depart. 

But cast thine eyes about thee ; 

Love still blossoms in thy path ; 
The dark cloud hanging o'er thee 

A silver lining hath. 

Far across the troubled waters, 
Though all is dark o'erhead, 

Shine radiant gleams of sunlight 
On the way thy feet must tread. 

The Father's hand hath led thee 
Along life's checkered length, 

And his grace will still sustain thee ; 
As thy day shall be thy strength. 

Mother, oh, so deeply, sadly 
Thy sorrows grieve my heart ! 



NEDDY, 115 

And my loving hand would gladly 
Wipe thy tear-drops as they start. 

If in aught I e'er have grieved thee 
Since my childhood's wilful day, 

Bless me, mother, and forgive me, 
Bless me, O my mother, pray. 



NEDDY. 



A spirit of love and mirth 
Has put on the robes of earth, 
And folded its pinion bright 
By my hearthstone's cheery light, 
And over my love-lit home 
A heavenly witchery thrown. 

'Tis a mischievous, frolicsome sprite, 
In merriest moods bedight ; 
But his silvery laugh rings out 
So sweet with his romping shout, 
That you pardon, as soon as done, 
The tricks for the sake of the fun. 

His blue eye is wild with glee, 
But in the clear depths you see, 
Though the frolic rays o'er it dance, 
An earnest and tender glance, 



n6 NEDDY. 

A softness that's ever a part 
Of the wealth of a loving heart. 

His red lip with smiles brims o'er, 
But with kisses and love-words more; 
But with pressure so fond and warm 
He winds round your neck his arm, 
So caressing his coaxing tone, 
No heart but his spell must own. 

He's a wee little fair-browed boy, 
My baby, the household toy; 
But yet a bold sturdy wight, 
With marbles and balls and kite, 
And thinks he's quite fit to be 
A gallant protector to me. 

He boasts, with a manly air, 
How when I am old he'll care 
For the Mommy he loves so well 
He never the half can tell ; 
And, amid all his rattling fun, 
Parsee ne'er worshiped the sun 
With fervor more deep than his 
His loving heart gives to me. 

On his couch in the still night hour 
He sleeps like a folded flower, 
And I gaze, till the tear-drops start, 
On his beauty, with thankful heart, 
While breathing a yearning prayer 
That the world my pet may spare ; 



THE COWSLIP. 

That, when he shall come to die, 
That sparkling, loving eye, 
Undimmed by the sins of earth, 
May beam with the rapture worth 
All heaven or earth can give, — 
The bliss in God's smile to live. 



117 



THE COWSLIP. 

Sweet mountain-blossom, glinting forth 

Amid the din of city life, 
Thy soft green leafs familiar tint, 

With gentle, thronging memories rife, 
Wakes up within my weary soul 

A rushing tide of visions wild, 
Painting unto my spirit's eye 

The bright land where I was a child. 

The bright land ! Heaven scarce seems to me 

More radiant than that lovely clime ; 
The wave of life scarce seems more clear 

Than to my heart its streamlets shine : 
A land of mountain, rock, and steep, 

O'ershading vales as Aiden fair, 
And overarched by skies methinks 

That never threatening cloud did wear. 

Long, long ago the cares of life, 
Its bitter lessons, blighting griefs, 
11 



n8 THE COWSLIP. 

Swept o'er my soul, a fiery flood, 
And seared its early golden sheafs ; 

But thou, sweet little mountain gem, 
Hast wakened up this sunny morn 

The blasted beauties of the past 
To bloom as in life's early morn. 

How strange, on this bare desert spot, 

Scorched by the rays reflected bold 
From towering walls of brick and stone, 

To see thy wee bells part the mould, 
As fresh, as delicate and fair, 

In sylvan loveliness bedight, 
As in the forest's dim arcades 

They opened to the softened light ! 

And how this balmy air recalls 

The spring-time rambles in the wood, 
When, by the brooklet rippling clear 

On whose green margin thick ye stood, 
A guileless, dreaming, happy child, 

With tangled curls upon my brow, 
I sought thy dewy azure bells 

As seeks my heart for nothing now ! 

Oh, could I see thee once again 

In those dear woods bloom by the brook, 
With gray old rocks piled high above 

The fern and wind-flower's sheltered nook, 
My saddened and world-wearied heart 

Might learn again the lesson sweet 
Of trust in every human thing, 

And childhood's happy dreams repeat. 



TtfANK- OFFERING, 

But no ; the blissful time is past ; 

The heart, unlike the woodland flower, 
That blooms again, no more can wear 

The glory that is childhood's dower : 
Yet memories of that golden time, 

With earnest, daily work well done, 
Will shed a brightness o'er the path 

Till the sweet rest beyond is won. 



119 



THANK-OFFERING. 

I thank Thee, Father ! in my glad heart wells 

A gushing tide of gratitude and love, 
As, raised from deeps of hopeless woe, it swells 

The chant of praise sung in thy courts above, 
To see Thee, God of mercy, smiling o'er 

A world where all is beautiful and bright, 
To taste secure once more the bounteous store 

Of joys that spring within home's holy light.. 

I thank Thee, Father ! through the livelong night 

I watched the pulse's frenzied fever-beat; 
With bended knee, in voiceless prayer, the light 

Of reason in the dull eyes gazed to meet ; 
Stifled my heart's wild, anguished, bursting sob 

With sad sweet snatches of remembered prayer, 
And, trusting in thy love, despite the throb 

Of yearning nature, dared not bid Thee spare. 



120 TO FLOY. 

I thank Thee, Father ! from the loved one's cheek 

The lurid fever-flush has faded now, 
And blessed health, with visage mild and meek, 

Smiles calmly on me from the pale white brow. 
The angel dark, whose ghastly pinion spread 

Its dreadful shadow o'er my breaking heart, 
Has ceased to hover o'er the prayer-watched head, 

And turned aside the sha*p and threatening dart. 

I thank Thee, Father ! from each greenwood grove 

The birds are pouring forth their joyful lays, 
And all the stars in their bright homes above 

Are hymning to my heart sweet notes of praise. 
Oh, may my life, like theirs, be one long lay, 

Henceforth, of thanks and praise to Thee, 
The ceaseless worship of a Sabbath day, 

Till the great Sabbath set my spirit free. 



TO FLOY. 



Darling, when, a tender infant, 

Holy water on thy brow 
Signed thee for the Saviour's service, 

Then I made a solemn vow 
In his blessed steps to lead thee, 
With his holy word to feed thee. 

Years have passed ; the hallowed sunshine 
Of his grace upon thy heart 



JENNY. I2I 

To my prayers have been vouchsafed thee, 

Well to fit thee for thy part, — 
E'en while childhood's roses pressing, 
Crowned thee with his choicest blessing. 

Sealed and sworn, think not of turning : 

Soon thy service He will claim ; 
Go, with youthful ardor burning, 

Go to own his cause and name : 
Heed nor Sloth nor Folly's prattle; 
Up, and arm thee for the battle. 

Go, ere yet life's fierce sun blazing 

Fade the blossoms in thy path ; 
Give thy heart's first sweet devotion, 

Ere thy sins can dread his wrath : 
Ere the draught of Pleasure cloy, 
Taste the draught of endless joy. 



JENNY. 



Thy life is glad and bright, Jenny, 
The sunshine lights thy way ; 

Fond, loving hearts surround thee 
Where'er thy footsteps stray. 

Sweet music haunts thy ear, Jenny, 
Bright blossoms fill thy hand, 

And varied joys allure thee 
To Pleasure's fairy-land. 



122 LITTLE MATTY. 

But go not thou too far, Jenny, 

Upon that smiling way \ 
For oft within the mazes bright 

The serpent stings his prey- 
Life is not all a feast, Jenny, 

And cares and griefs will come, 
And earnest work awaiteth thee, 

Ere the soul's rest is won. 

Thy faith will keep thy feet, Jenny, 
From many a lurking snare ; 

But all thy life remember, dear, 
The surest shield is prayer. 



LITTLE MATTY. 

Lay her down gently 

Out of thy arms, 
Where so oft gathered, 

Safe from all harms, 
With velvet cheek nestled 

Close to thy breast, 
Erst at eve's closing 

She sank to her rest. 
Now all is over, 

The long rest is won, 
The white feet that met thee 

Their last race have run ; 



LITTLE MATTY. 123 



And on thy fond bosom 

So softly to sleep 
She hath sunk that we scarcely 

Remember to weep. 
Robe her now tenderly 

In the white dress 
Her mother's embroidery 

Wrought in such bliss ; 
So rich in adornment 

All others above, 
So twined with heart-fancies, 

So fashioned in love; 
Meet garment to deck her 

With care all the more, 
So mournfully conscious 

Such labors are o'er. 
In the pale hands so stiffened, 

The white blossoms place, 
As fair, fleet, and fading 

As that waxen face. 
Then kneel in the twilight 

With crushed heart so sore, 
And wail o'er the bright hopes 

That come nevermore. 
Yes, wail; for there cometh 

Some balm still from tears, 
And they do not more darken 

The sad coming years, 
Through which, though the blossoms 

Bloom bright by the way, 
That first blighted lily 

Seems fairer than they : 



124 



IN MEMORIAM. 

And the sweet hope forever 

Still lureth us on, 
Beside the blest river, 

When life's crown is won, 
To find the plucked floweret 

In heaven's pure light, 
By earth-stain unsullied, 

In glory bedight. 



IN MEMORIAM, 

Louisa, wife of John P. Trezevant. 

The noble, the pure, the true of heart 

Are passing away from earth, 
And naught seems left to the mourners here 

But memory of their worth, 
The halo of a vanished love, 

The gleam of heavenly light, 
Left by a pure and earnest life 

When lost to human sight. 

We close their eyes with words of faith ; 

We robe them for the grave ; 
We press the last kiss on the brow, 

And deem we're strong and brave; 
But from the tear-dewed tomb we turn 

To face the path of life, 
And shrink from the gloomy, clouded way, 

From the lonely, weary strife. 



IN MEMORIAM. 125 

Amid the brightest household bowers 

The blossoms scentless fade, 
And o'er the once bright hearthstone fire 

Hovers a spectral shade ; 
The sweetest notes in Pleasure's strains 

With jarring discord ring 
Unto the ear of him who sits 

'Neath Sorrow's pallid wing. 

Yet with a purer, holier light 

That shaded pathway shines, 
Unto the soul whose chastened thought 

The holy dead enshrines, 
Than beamed from out the cloudless skies 

O'er him whose dancing feet 
Seek but the rosy, festal scenes 

Where Youth and Pleasure meet. 

For viewless guardian angels throng 

Our haunted feet around, 
As o'er the desert wastes of life 

With quickened steps we bound ; 
Their voices mingle in our prayers, 

Their smiles are ever near, 
Their gentle hands forever guide, 

Our fainting hearts they cheer 
With glimpses of the fadeless shore, 

Beneath whose radiant skies 
The noble, the pure, the true in heart 

Wait us in Paradise. 



I2 6 OH, WHEN THIS FEVERED LIFE IS O'ER, 



OH, WHEN THIS FEVERED LIFE 
IS O'ER! 

Oh, when this fevered life is o'er, 

And this poor frame of pain-racked dust 

Shall feel earth's ills and storms no more, 
Nor passion's fitful, fiery gust, 

With holy rites unto the earth. 

Let loving hands my body bear, 
Without one laud to my poor worth 

But the dear ancient rite and prayer. 

Raise no proud marble o'er my breast, 

No heavy monumental pile ; 
But lay me to my dreamless rest 

In some green forest's breezy aisle, 

Beneath some tree that, near the sky, 
Shelters the moaning wild dove's nest, 

And. plant the creamy white rose nigh, 
That in my life I loved the best. 

Heap high the sweet mould on my bed, 
Where blue-eyed violets may grow ; 

Let Summer night her dews there shed, 
The Winter weave her robe of snow. 

My dead, cold bosom may not feel 
The autumn sunlight's golden glow, 



OH, WHEN THIS FEVERED LIFE IS O'ER. 127 

My eye not see the starlight steal 
Upon my narrow home below ; 

But sweeter rest I there shall have, 
If o'er me sun and starlight smile, 

Though only there rank grasses wave, 
Than 'neath man's costliest marble pile. 

Place at my head, of gray stone wrought, 

A cross, that to the passing eye 
May tell — oh, sweet and blessed thought ! — 

That Christian ashes 'neath it lie. 

No labored epitaph I crave, 

To give to human genius scope ; 
But let Affection's hand there grave, 

" My flesh shall also rest in hope." 

What blessedness these words convey 
To human love, in death still fond, 

Of meetings in the endless day, 
And glories of the bright beyond ! 

" Shall rest in hope." This pulseless clay 

Shall moulder to its parent dust, 
But not one atom pass away, 

Save with the Christian's deathless trust, 

That, glorified, all pure and blest, 
Clothed in immortal garb of light, 

'Twill join again its spirit-guest 
And live in God's all-loving sight. 



128 THE DEAD. 



THE DEAD. 

The regions of the spirit- land 

Are populous and rich to me, 
While life seems a deserted strand, 

Washed by a wild, tumultuous sea. 

Long years ago, to my young eye 
It bloomed a meadow green and fair, 

O'er which the hours came dancing by, 
With laughing eyes and sunny hair. 

I danced with them, and every heart 
Seemed to respond unto my own ; 

But, while I played my joyous part, 
My friends went from me, one by one : 

Yet still the meadow-sward was green, 

The bright-hued blossoms still were sweet, 

The cloudless skies o'erspread the scene, 
And music lured the dancers' feet. 

But strangers thronged the blooming bowers, 
Whose steps were fleeter than my own, 

And, with the rosy-mantled hours, 
Danced by, and I was left alone. 

I see them dancing far away, 

But cannot join the mirthful band : 

Bound by a spell, my feet will stray 
Along the now-deserted strand. 



THE DEAD, 

The billows of that heaving sea 
Make sweeter music to my ear 

Than Pleasure's dulcet melody, 
For o'er it lies the spirit-sphere; 

And there at times Faith's eye can see, 
Amid the amaranthine bowers, 

The friends who danced in youth with me, 
Crowned with the never-fading flowers ; 

Can hear their sweetly-warbled songs 
Of that pure clime's undying joys; 

And, while for them my sad heart longs, 
It cannot prize earth's glittering toys. 

They beckon me with eyes of love, 
And then the billows smoothly flow, 

And with a silver cadence move, 
In low, sweet murmurs, to and fro : 

But when my yearning heart would fain 
Plunge in the gentle, shining tide, 

The black waves rise, and clouds again 
The blest shore from my vision hide. 

Yet still the echo of their song 

Comes o'er the waters, strangely sweet, 

Binding with viewless fetters strong 
Unto the shore my waiting feet. ... 

There are on life's deserted shore ; 
A few fond hearts that Jove me yet-; 

12 



129 



13° 



TO FLOY. 

But we can laugh and dance no more, 

As when in youth's bright bowers we met. 

The skies are blue above us still 

With sun and starlight's summer smile, 

The flowers are fair on glade and hill, 
But cannot now to sport beguile. 

We gently wander hand in hand, 

And gaze, with wistful, longing eyes, 

Across the waves to that bright land 
Where dwell the dead in Paradise. 



TO FLOY. 



Darling, o'er thy heedless footsteps 

Keeps my heart its watch to pray, 
In loving firmness to withhold thee 

From the snares that crowd thy way. 
Trust my love ; I cannot flatter ; 

Sweet things plenty others say ; 
Roses round thy feet they scatter, 

I would pluck the thorns away. 
Trust me, love me : though with sharpness 

Oft I chide thy wayward play, 
'Tis that in thy bright eyes' sparkle 

I would keep an honest ray ; 
'Tis that for life's earnest battle, 

Where the spoiler seeks his prey, 



PURE AND TRUE. 

I would see thee, armed and furnished, 

Brave, unflinching face the fray. 
Deem not, darling, from thy bosom 

I would pluck the flowers away, 
But to save thee from the venom 

Of their swift and sure decay. 
Brows enwreathed with fading flowers 

Face less firm the narrow way 
Where the Saviour's hosts must travel 

To the realms of endless day. 
Hands too full of earth's vain toys, 

Fettered by their chains of clay, 
Could not grasp the deathless blossoms 

Where the living waters play. 
Trust me, love me, when I chide thee : 

Round thy smiling, happy way, 
None more truly watch to guide thee, 

None more fondly for thee pray. 



131 



PURE AND TRUE. 

Blanche McGehee. 

Pure and true : no shining talents, 
Beauty passing that of earth,. 

E'er could sound a praise so lofty, 
So man's earnest strivings worth. 

Pure and true : my fond eye, resting 
On thy soft, bright, flaxen hair, 



132 






PURE AND TRUE. 

Peachy cheek, and pearly forehead, 
Loves to read the pureness there. 

Pure and true : thy bright eye glances 
Radiant with the glow of youth ; 

Brighter in its clear orb sparkles, 
Like a star, thy perfect truth. 

Pure and true : no flashing jewels 
E'er shall flame above thy brow 

With one-half the sheen and lustre 
Truth and pureness lend thee now. 

Pure and true : the gates of heaven 
Open but to those who bear, 

From the paths of earthly pleasure, 
Robes unsullied, pure and fair. 

Pure and true : of all the pilgrims 
Who this vale of tears have trod, 

But the pure and true can ever 
See the loving smile of God. 



MA RAH. ^3 



MARAH. 

I went out full, and the Lord hath brought me home empty. 1 

Travel-stained, footsore and weary, 

Comes the exile home again, 
Lifting eyes tear-stained and dreary 

O'er her life's wide blasted plain ; 
With the dust of ceaseless sorrow 

Burning ever on her brow, 
Seeks on Labor's fields to borrow 

Strength to meet the empty Now. 

Ne'er was queen, with brow gem -studded, 

On the world's most lofty throne, 
Richer than, with heart love-flooded, 

Went the exile from her home. 
Mother! oh, the wealth, the glory 

Of that diadem of light, 
To the heart that read the story 

Of her country's sacred fight, 
And knew the spirit lealest, truest, 

Bravest in the mortal fray 
Named her mother, — proudest, purest 

Title of a child of clay ! 

On the won field, rent and gory, 
Whence tjie routed foe had fled, 

Faded out the light and glory 
When the hero son lay dead. 



134 DREAM-LAND. 

Empty, shorn, and inly bleeding, 

Groping 'neath a rayless sky, 
All the joys of earth unheeding, 

Fain the mother heart would die ; 
But from memory's cell came stealing 

Whispered tones of tender love, 
To the darkened soul revealing 

Shapes of light the grave above ; 
And a form of wondrous beauty, 

Hero brow, but maiden cheek, 
Seemed to say, "Life's all is duty; 

And the leal the conflict seek." 



Travel-stained, footsore and weary, 

Is there strength left to obey? 
O'er a life so stripped and dreary 

Can the fainting steps make way ? 
Saviour, on thy path of sorrow, 

Guide the feet so prone to stray ; 
Purge the tear-dimmed eyes to follow 

Thee, and be my strength and stay. 






DREAM-LAND. 

I once was the queen of a palace of love, 

Where Joy shone bright as the glance of the day ; 

But Sorrow sits brooding its turrets above, 

And I crouch in the ruins, to weep and to pray. 



DREAM-LAND. 135 

But oft in the lull of the tempest of grief 
I'm lured from the echoing ruins to stray, 

And seek in the gardens of Dream-land relief, 
And wile in its beauties my anguish away. 

For Dream-land is more like the home I once knew, 
When love, hope, and faith in my bosom were young, 

Than this which my tear-darkened glances now view, 
With the foul, tangled network of sin overhung. 

For there, as I linger 'neath skies fair and warm, 
My brow once again with its love-circle crowned, 

My lost ones come to me, and every dear form 
Love, truth, and eternal perfection surround. 

There women are still, as of old, chaste and pure ; 

They marry for life, and, if love is betrayed, 
In chasteness the will of the Lord they endure, 

And chaste widowed hearts on his altar are laid. 

The wives there are helpmeets, keepers at home ; 

Training the sons for the Church and the State, 
Training the daughters in home -light to bloom," 

In duty sublime they heaven await. 

The husbands in Dream-land are housebands indeed, 
Shielding the family nest from the world ; 

Whose power, put forth wife and children to feed, 
The banner of Right hath in Dream-land unfurled. 

The churches in Dream-land are houses of prayer, 
Where devoutly the people in worship low bend, 



136 



DREAM-LAND. 



In plain, seemly garments that call not for care, 
And loud, hearty prayers to the arches ascend. 

There stands in the chancel the white-vested priest, 
Who leads them in love to the blest Crucified ; 

And thankful they kneel at the Eucharist feast 
To their famishing souls as of old time supplied. 

With consecrate heart, as with consecrate hand, 
The blessing of peace to the people he gives, 

With accents of gentleness knitting the band 

That binds them to Him whose sworn servant he lives. 

O Dream-land, sweet Dream-land, so far, yet so near, 
Would God in thy bowers I ever could stay ! 

But the world's cares and duties, with voices severe, 
Are calling me from thy Nepenthe away. 

Yet still 'mid the ashes and dust where I weep, 
In all that remains of my palace of love, 

Sweet strains lull the sharp-stinging anguish to sleep, 
From the music that floats over Dream-land above. 

And I thank, from the depths of my sad darkened heart, 
The Giver of good, that his fatherly hand 

Has framed, for the wounded by Sorrow's keen dart, 
The beautiful realm of repose, the Dream-land. 



MISERERE ME I, CHRISTE. I3? 



MISERERE ME I, CHRISTE. 

Jesus, close to thy side 
I fain would crouch, to hide 
My wounds that gape so wide, 
And will not, will not close. 

But, oh, so weak and worn, 
By sin and sorrow torn, 
Of hope and faith forlorn, 

I cannot reach thy breast ! 

O Thou, who didst forgive 
Thy foes, in mercy give 
The grace in love to live 

With those who wrought my woe. 

Grant me, O Saviour meek, 
With earnest will to seek 
Thy blessed prayer to speak, 

" Forgive their blinded sin." 

Clear from my tear-dimmed eyes 
The baleful crimson dyes 
Upon their hands that rise 

Whene'er they meet my sight. 

Give strength, O Jesus mild, 
To chase these visions wild, 



138 REQUIEM FOR GENERAL R. E, LEE. 

And make thy sinful child 

See but thy precious blood. 

Cast out each bitter thought 
With sullen hardness fraught, 
The peace thy anguish bought 
Help me to make my own. 



REQUIEM FOR GENERAL R. E. LEE. 

Toll the solemn funeral bell, 

With loving, reverent hand, 
The mournful news to tell 

Through all the stricken land, 
That our king of men is dead, — 
Lee is dead. 

The sable hangings drape 

From the mansion and the cot ; 
Let the drooping badge of crape 

Witness bear in every spot 
That we mourn our royal dead ; — 
Lee is dead. 

Call a sacred Sabbath rest 

'Mid the weekday sport and toil ; 

Let the city's sordid breast 
Cease its clamor and turmoil, 

Mourning the mighty dead ; — 
Lee is dead. 



REQUIEM FOR GENERAL R. E. LEE. j^g 

Let the slow-paced funeral train 

Through the silent highway go, 
Let Music's wailing strain 

Speak a nation's deathless woe 

That her prince of men is dead, — 

Lee is dead. 

Let eloquence proclaim, 

With all the skill of art, 
The deeds that made his fame 

Part of the Southern heart ; 
With these words such anguish sped, — 
Lee is dead. 

In our Kalends mark the day, 

That our children, through all time, 

May learn with pride to say 

How his goodness, half divine, 

Matched his greatness : and he's dead, — 
Lee is dead. 

Lee is dead ! Through all the earth 
Where the lightning bears the word, 

Men will pause from toil and mirth, 
With hearts to homage stirred, 

Say, "The Southern hero's dead, — 
Lee is dead." 

Lee is dead ; but living still 

In fair Dixie's bleeding heart, 
Where, with pangs that will not kill, 

Rankles deep the barbed dart 
Of a pride, with sorrow wed, 
In her dead. 



T40 



DIXIE AT THE GRAVES OF HER DEAD. 

Lee is dead \ and with the brave 

Let us lay our hates to rest ; 
Not a flag of discord wave 

O'er the buried hero's breast; 
Peace and love are with the dead, — 
Lee is dead. 



DIXIE AT THE GRAVES OF HER 
DEAD. 

" Solemnes turn forte dapes et tristia dona, 
Ante urbem, in luco, falsi Simoentis ad undam, 
Libabat cineri Andromache, Manesque vocabat 
Hectoreum ad tumulum, viridi quern cespite inanem, 
Et geminas, causam lachrymis, sacraverat aras." 

Yearly fair Dixie comes in chains, 
In memory of the cherished past, 
The produce of her blooming plains, 
The children of the Spring, to cast 
Upon the hallowed turf where rest 
The martyred braves nursed at her breast, 
And teach to childhood's ear the story 
Of deeds that filled the land with glory. 

She, like the Trojan matron, draws 

In shameful servitude her breath 
Unto an enemy whose laws 

Make life to her a living death ; 
And not the Grecian's brutish rage, 
Sparing nor Trojan sex nor age, 



DIXIE AT THE GRAVES OE HER DEAD. 

Could match the fell deeds of the foe 
Whose malice wrought her mighty woe. 

She binds, with feeble, fettered hands, 
Her thousand gaping wounds to hide, 

Her mourning garments' sable bands 
Around her torn and bleeding side, 

And sad, discrowned, but royal still, 

With love no tyranny can kill, 

Gives chaplets to her heroes' graves, 

But tears unto her living brave. 

No tears for them wl ose proud eyes blazed 

Exulting in victorious fight, 
Who saw their banner still upraised, 

Who trusted in the might of Right, 
And gave their dauntless hearts to be 
The seed of Freedom's sacred tree; — 
No tears, but flowers, in deathless love, 
She strews each cherished tomb above. 

Humble, unmarked, without a name 

O'er which a kindred eye may weep, 
On every Southern hill and plain, 

Escaped the hated chain, they sleep ; 
But one, the proudest name is theirs 
That Fame to Southern hearing bears, — 
A Southern soldier ; with that name 
Millions a loving kindred claim, 
And shrines for grateful love shall rise 
Where'er a Southern soldier lies. 
13 



141 



142 



THE CONFEDERATE FLAG. 



THE CONFEDERATE FLAG. 

11 There's not one left to love it." 

None left to love thee, thou flag of the brave, 
Which heroes baptized in their life-blood, to save 
Their beautiful land from the doom of the slave, 
And gayly and trustingly went to their grave, 
Secure that its star-studded cross yet should light 
The South to her freedom, and Right conquer Might ! 

None left to love it ! Ah ! little they know, 

In the glee of their triumph, the wild anguished throe 

Of a patriot's love, as beneath the fierce blow 

We stagger and reel, yet feel the heart glow 

With a worshiping love for that type of the Past, 

O'er which such a halo by Valor was cast. 

None left to love it ! Till time shall grow hoary, 
We'll tell o'er and o'er to our children the story 
Of fields with the blood of such heroes made gory, 
As never before filled the world with their glory, 
And teach them to count o'er the pale stars with pride 
That floated above the rent fields where they died. 

None left to love it ! Eight million hearts cling 
To every torn shred of the dear lifeless thing, 
And deep in each true Southern heart ever spring 
Devotion and sorrow, their incense to bring, 



THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 143 

And keep with their pure priceless offerings the flame 
Of patriot pride still alive in our shame. 

None left to love it ! The giant soul -swell 
With which they lament for the chief in his cell, 
Whose great hand upheld it, and then with it fell, 
The depth of a people's love only can tell : — 
We love it the more, that the bright hopes it shed 
O'er the storm-cradled nation are withered and dead. 

None left to love it ! We've put it away, 

With holiest relics, from light of the day, — 

With the sword that some brave "vanished hand'* 

once did sway, — 
With the uniform worn in the desperate fray, — 
With the dim golden tress on a brave brow that lay, — 
With the letters aglow with love's tenderest ray, — 
In some holy of holies, where no eye profane 
Can enter, the soul's loyal worship to bane. 

The line which gave birth to the above was afterwards found to be 
a misprint of a line in the " Conquered Banner." 



THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 

Martyrs are here : 'tis holy^ground ; 
Hush every rude, 'irreverent sound; 
Bow with bared head ; 'neath every mound 
A Southern soldier lies. 



144 



THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 

Our dead are here : the flowers we bring 
Sadly with every new-born spring, 
As on a holy shrine to fling, 

Our deathless love proclaim. 

The blest are here : the iron chain 
Is eating into heart and brain ; — 
The happy are the noble slain 
Whose ashes moulder here. 

The blest are they, before whose sight 
Their flag waved in victorious fight, 
Who died, believing Right was Might, 
Ere came their country's doom. 

How peacefully, through all the years 
Made mournful by our scalding tears 
And dreadful by sharp-eating fears, 
Escaped the chain, they sleep ! 

Our hapless Southern land of flowers 
Shrines sacred dust in all her bowers 
Of those who from unhallowed powers 
To save her gave their lives. 

Her soil is drunk with patriot blood, 
Poured out in fight by field and flood, 
And puts forth fragrant bloom and bud 
To hide the crimson stain. 

Oh, would that human hearts could bloom 
Thus o'er their hidden pain and gloom, 
And wreathe with beauty and perfume 
The bleeding wounds they bear ! 



THE CONFEDERATE DEAD. 

Our patriot dead are living still, 
In deeds that all men's memories fill 
And wreathe with glory vale and hill 
Of the fair Dixie land. 

They lost the fight ; but o'er their dust 
Strew the sweet flowers of hope and trust, 
That for a holy cause and just 
They have not died in vain. 

No, not in vain : the sacred band, 
Who gave their lives for fatherland, 
Immortal for the Right still stand, 
A mighty bannered host. 

Men write each proud, heroic name 
Upon the long bead-roll of Fame, 
And down the ages send the flame 
In their true souls that burned. 

Then bring fair flowers, and through all time 
Ring every year their funeral chime, 
And tell the tale of deeds sublime 
To fan the holy fire. 

Mourning our dead ! O Undefiled, 
Saviour most loving, meek, and mild, 
Help us our hates and passions wild 
To bury 'neath these flowers. 



13* 



H5 



146 WILLY. 



WILLY. 

I am rich in a dear little grandson, 
With great, liquid, soulful gray eyes, 

In whose tiny three-year-old fingers, 

Waked from depths of despair, my heart lies. 

On the rent field at red Tishemingo, 
Whence the foe before Forrest had fled, 

Stricken down in his wonderful beauty, 
My life's crown of glory lay dead; 

And I thought that my dead heart lay buried 
In the grave where they gathered my boy ; 

But this babe, with his name, has awakened 
In my life again brightness and joy. 

For a bliss all my being is thrilling, 
That every dark thought can beguile, 

As he lisps out, " My sweet dear Darmudder, ,, 
And hugs me so tightly the while. 

The dear babe is often sore puzzled, 
So many whom best he must love ; 

When Danny, Darmudder, and Mudder 
Each claim him the others above. 

First he kisses his Danny's white ringlets, 
With glance all askance at the rest; 



WILL Y. 

Then his Mudder's dear own Willy boy; 
Then thinks he loves Darmudder best. 

Three generations my darling to spoil, 
With each its dear link to the past, — 

How shall his spirit the danger escape 
And anchor in safety at last ? 

His chiefest delight every morning 
Is the old hobby-horse to bestride, 

Holding fast by the neck or the rockers, 
To "Darmudder Mary" to ride, 

Shouting out to his mother, he's going, 
To give him the old leather sack, 

Not a moment to lose, "just a flying 
To Memphis to bring Danny back." 

God grant, little one, in thy future 

Thy course thou may'st just so pursue ! — 

No groveling, no stooping, but flying 

Straight onward, right upward, right true. 

With sweet solemn faith at the table, 

Looking down on the plate that he twirls, 

He says, " Dod bess Darmudder, Danny, 
Tousin Rosie, and all of de dirls." 

And I think that grace surely was never 
More earnest and true said at meat, 

And my head bends instinctively lower, 
The sure-coming blessing to greet. 



M7 



148 WILLY. 

Snatched up from his mud pies and puddings, 
Again to be washed in disgrace, 

The soft voice beseechingly whispers, 
" Darmudder, pease tiss on my face." 

And I breathe a low prayer, as I do it, 
To the loving All-Father above, 

To print on my heart the deep lesson 
Of conquering anger with love, 

That my soul, which at earthy mud banquets 
Its baptismal garments has stained, 

He will cleanse with his perfect forgiveness 
In the blood-tide from Jesus* side drained. 

As, with stick-musket laid on his shoulder, 
Forth to kill bears and tigers he sallies, 

His look so intent and so fearless 
My own courage constantly rallies ; 

And my weapon of Faith I straight shoulder, 
My life's bears and tigers to meet, 

From which I so lately in terror 
Was turning my weak coward feet. 

His face with fierce passion is clouded, 
For sweet cake by mother forbid, 

And big angry tear-drops are swelling 
Beneath the close, firmly-shut lid ; 

But the voice of the dear baby sister 
The storm in a moment can hush, 



WILL Y. 

And smiles, like God's glad, holy sunshine, 
O'er brow, lip, and eyes quickly rush. 

You can read in the glance warm and tender, 
That flashes from out the bright eyes, 

A richness of brave, gentle fondness, 
A true knight in baby disguise. 

With spirit so gallant, his sister 
He leads from each danger away, 

Or says, with admiring glances, 

" Mudder, isn't her pretty to-day?" 

Not a mean, selfish thought in his bosom 

A moment e'er seems to abide; 
For a part of each least bit of candy 

For sister must be set aside. 

A spirit so bright, true, and tender 
Scarce seems of this earth to be part ; 

And a wild, aching fear lest I lose him 
At times almost palsies my heart. 

O Father in heaven, whose goodness 
The gift to my heart did bestow, 

Give me strength, in thy hands my all leaving, 
The blessing of full trust to know. 

Keep my heart, O my Father, from idols, 
Fill my soul with the temper divine 

But to pray that, howe'er we may journey, 
My darling and I may be thine. 



149 



1 5 o JANUAR Y FIFTEENTH. 



JANUARY FIFTEENTH. 

Oh, blest forever be the day ! 

For, though 'tis dreary winter time, 
Its rude winds seem more soft to play 

Than summer's sunniest golden prime. 

In my gay, hopeful, sunny youth 
It gave to me my crown of joy, — 

A daughter's perfect love and truth, 
Earth-born, yet free from earth's alloy. 

My daughter ! for her sake that word 
Breathes sweeter music to my ear 

Than else in human speech e'er heard, 
And linked with images more dear ; 

Linked with Affection's fondest tone, 
With sweetest, gentlest acts of love, 

Which o'er a weary life have thrown 
Light from the heavenly rest above. 

Father, whate'er thy love can send 
To recompense that tender heart, 

I pray thee in her cup to blend, 
And perfect peace and joy impart. 

Thy bounty formed her passing fair, 

Thy grace hath made her kind and true ; 

And from thy hand came gifts most rare : 
Oh, grant her, Father, happy too ! 



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